


Testing The Waters

by Good Morning Hawkins (quodpersortem)



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol, Closeted Character, Enemies to Lovers, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Burn, Swim Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-09-05 03:42:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16802953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quodpersortem/pseuds/Good%20Morning%20Hawkins
Summary: After Billy moves to Hawkins, everything is the same old, same old, just in a worse place than before. In the meantime, his presence cuts Steve loose and sets him adrift.Aka: the swim club AU that should have been canon. Damn you, Duffers!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pfew! So this story has been a long time coming. I initially wrote it over summer, then re-wrote it in September, and due to Uni and circumstances it kind of ground to a halt... However, it is nearly done, sitting on my drive doing nothing, and there's a big fat chance that I will end up finishing it at other people's incentive (ergo: feel free to kick my ass). 
> 
> I will post once a week over the weekend; I am estimating the finished fic will count 7 or maybe 8 chapters. Please keep in mind that I will update the tags per update, meaning that new triggers could potentially show up as the story progresses and gets a bit darker! Finally, feel free to point out any typos you spot.
> 
> I want to take a moment for special thanks to [billys-hard-grove](http://billys-hard-grove.tumblr.com/), who was there when the idea took shape and has given invaluable feedback throughout the process :)
> 
> Welcome to this rollercoaster, I hope you'll enjoy yourselves x

He dives into the water, feels it cool against his skin as he opens his eyes, so he can follow the floor’s blue inlay below. He focuses on his breathing, on the way he plants his feet when he pushes off the wall when he starts a new lap. On the weightlessness, on the only sounds he hears—the rush of the water and the rhythmic _thump_ of his heart.

No matter how grimy-looking, the Hawkins competitive swimming pool, built adjacent to Hawkins High, is one of the town’s very few redeeming factors. The other perks include the Hawkins High school swimming team, the Hawkins Hawks Swim Team and the garage he works at to earn enough money for memberships, equipment and travel meet entries.

Billy thinks he would have run if he hadn’t had at any of that. He’s been stripped down to the bare bones of existence—the pool is nothing compared to the outdoor pool of his school back in California, not their indoor pool, not their outdoor pool, and neither could replace the wonders of the ocean. There is no outdoor pool in Hawkins, unless he counts the one in the Harrington backyard.

Billy isn’t used to the cold. Ever-open windows and poorly closing doors allow the freezing outside air to flow into the building, a draught that permeates the changing room no matter which corner he picks—he can feel it on his legs when he talks through a main set with Coach Davis and when he takes a tepid post-practice shower. Goose bumps have become a perpetual state of being.

The swim culture is different too, somehow. Much like the pool, the team is not welcoming and cold. They feel stale, and everyone seems tenser. Warier of one another, or less supportive at the very least, with the guys turning their backs to each other and the girls on the team giggling and blushing before looking to the other side when they see Billy approach. After two weeks on the team, the only guy he has become acquainted with is Tommy Hill, who seems to have a taste for partying that matches Billy’s own. The only other guys he knows by name are Miller and Harrington, both strong swimmers, both on the relay team, and both revered by the girls walking the corridors of Hawkins High.

Both look good, too. Strong shoulders, dark hair—Harrington’s longer than Miller’s, who keeps a buzzcut. Billy tries not to look at them, he knows the trouble that could come from that, although he has never experienced it first-hand. It’s difficult more often than not, with Harrington being the kind of guy that he thinks he could call his _type_ : taller than him, brown eyes, and a caring nature that Billy gets to witness each time he walks by Harrington kissing his girlfriend in the school corridor.

Tommy’s girlfriend Carol is on the school team as well. Rather than dwelling on what should have been—making a new start, finding a girl to fall for, winning his dad’s approval—Billy finds himself falling back into old patterns. Carol throws a party, Tommy invites him, Billy goes and ends up drunk.

It’s all the same old, same old, just in a worse place than before.

Billy feels empty, like he is a shell of his old California self. The anger he used to force aside is now all-consuming, bad enough that it has hindered instead of helped his swimming. He needs to be able to escape, to smell the sea and wade into it with only the moonlight for company.

He exhales. The bubbles tickle against his chest for a moment before he plunges his arms back into the water, forcibly shifting his focus back to his body cutting through the water. The weightlessness as the water carries him.

Coach’s whistle rings sharply across the water to signal it’s almost time to leave.

That’s okay, Billy thinks. His mind is muddy and his dad is still angry with him, but he knows how to break into the pool at night.

~~~

As soon as practice is over, Steve hurries to the showers. People fight about the only hot shower and this time he reaches it first, shampoo in hand. He closes his eyes as he lets the water rush over his aching shoulders, slowly heating up as tiredness starts to set in.

Slowly, the other showers around him are taken up. Steve is still in his post-practice headspace where he enjoys coming down from the strenuous exercise, slowly relaxing and blocking out the noise until it’s reduced to background murmurs.

It works until two voices cut through the monotonous din.

Tommy Hill has always been one of the loudest guys on the team. That was what drew Steve to him initially, a rash confidence that seemed to come from inside the boy that he could build on, feed off. Steve isn’t insecure but getting psyched up before a race is more important than anything else. They were—are?—friends, to an extent, although being with Nancy has put everything in a different light. He and his old friends are growing apart, and he doesn’t think he minds.

The other voice is another reason for their recent divergence. Billy Hargrove, the new student from California, is loud, mean and already slotting into Steve’s former place as top of the school’s hierarchy. He doesn’t mind the latter, but Billy’s character grates on Steve and he’s not interested in interactions with him.

It sucks that Tommy and Billy have different ideas about that.

Billy snags his shampoo from the floor and reads it out loud. “Fabergé Organics? What kind of girly shit is this, Harrington?”

Steve doesn’t respond, even though Tommy is laughing.

“Did you steal this from your girlfriend?” Billy continues. “Heard she’s cheating on ya, fucking some nerd, a guy called Jonathan? You know him?”

That stings and Steve tries to ward off more painful implications by responding, “No thanks, it’s my fucking own.”

It’s not true, he thinks. Nancy has been spending a lot of time with Jonathan, and she’s been growing more distant with Steve, but she wouldn’t cheat on him. He knows that she wouldn’t. Nancy is too honest, too kind, too wonderful to do any of that.

“Oh, you’re the kind of fag that has sensitive skin?” Billy continues, and Steve can feel anger rise in his stomach. He can take a lot, from most people, but _not_ from this asshole that somehow manages to push all of Steve’s buttons. “I bet your mommy has to put in a special order for this crap, doesn’t she?”

Taking a deep breath, Steve stares down Billy. “If you want to try it, asshole, help yourself.”

He’d tried, initially, to engage Billy in conversation. To be kind and get to know him a little, be friendly with him at least. He’d quickly realized that Billy had no interest in any of that, and more importantly, that Billy is not the kind of guy Steve _wants_ to be friends with.

Maybe they could have gotten along before he started to date Nancy. She’s shown him what is more important, or maybe Steve is growing up. He feels old, sometimes, outgrowing the confines of Hawkins and its schools and clubs. Its ways of thought. And some nights that saddens him, because there is something to the careless partying and mean laughter that Billy and Tommy engage in.

Now, Billy snags the shampoo from the floor. “Aw, Harrington, you’re no fun.” He steps into Steve’s space and Steve stares back at him. “Why are you this way? So— _boring_. It’s pretty fucking lame.” Tommy hoots, although Steve doesn’t think Billy is very creative.

“Maybe,” Steve tells him, “maybe if you focused on improving your swimming instead of trying to come up with insults, you’d win your next race.”

While it is minimal, Steve can see Billy is taken aback by that, can see the moment’s hesitation before he splutters out a disgruntled, “Fuck you.”

Steve smirks. Sean Miller, standing next to him, snickers into his hand. He rinses the shampoo from his hair and only then realizes the bottle is gone—Billy must have taken it, after all.

~~~

Billy has always found it hard to keep himself in control.

He steps in a little too close, pushes a little too far. One time he’d ended up pressing his lips to another pretty boy’s, in the showers after practice. No one had been around, they had been fourteen and fooling around, and they’d never talked about it afterwards.

Harrington spells trouble for him, and he knows it.

The bottle of Steve's shampoo is heavy in his hands, clearly it's still new, mostly full--and Billy's had to find a place for it in his room. There’s a picture of what he assumes is wheat, because the bottle proudly announces that the shampoo contains _wheat germ oil and honey_. Even the plastic looks more expensive than the low-range products Billy gets; he’ll do anything he can to save money for an extra meet.

It smells good, though. Fresh and sweet, a lot like a cleaner version of Harrington himself, mingled with the familiar smells of the Hargrove shower. He pours some onto his hand, and it’s thicker and creamier than the shampoo Billy usually uses. It might even help get rid of some of the chlorine stink that he doesn’t want his date complaining about tonight.

Closing his eyes, he washes his hair before running his hands over his body, spreading the suds everywhere. He lets his head drop back and inhales deeply, until the scent fills his nose. He can feel the pre-party anticipation, the excitement thrumming low in his stomach as he thinks about sweaty bodies grinding together in dim light, the low _thump_ of music, the alcohol he’ll get to drink.

In with that, his mind mixes images of Steve’s wide shoulders and narrower waist, the curve of his back sloping to the swell of his smooth ass that Billy tries not to look at. But he’s seen it plenty of times now, and he’s memorized it, and he wraps his hand around his hard dick while pretending that tonight he can grab it with two handfuls, shove Harrington up against a wall somewhere and get a hand on his dick, get those lips to suck him dry—

And it’s only when he is coming down, making sure he’s not leaving any mess on the walls, that inevitable shame rises in his guts, growing until it twists its evil tendrils around his stomach and he needs another few moments to himself because he can’t look at anybody, not even his reflection, while he’s feeling this way.

-

Upon arrival, Billy heads straight for the beer.

He’s got his arm slung around his date for the week, a pretty thing with long hair and brown eyes. An ass to die for, too, if he should believe Tommy.

He can feel her fingers dig into his waist and she turns into him, presumably for a kiss, but instead drags her nose across the skin of his neck. “You smell nice,” she whispers in his ear, squeezing him a little closer.

“Yeah, don’t I?” he smirks. “I got me some fancy shit just for you, babe.”

The mix of Steve’s shampoo and his own cologne clings to him and Billy knows it’s a bit much, probably, but it makes him feel confident. Good. Clean, in a way he doesn’t usually.

The alcohol helps too as it fizzes down his throat, acrid but flavorless before settling in his belly. His girl has a mix drink of some kind, something too sweet for Billy, at least in a public space. She giggles when he looks down at her and he pulls her closer, trying not to roll his eyes at his own fakery. She’s part of the game he’s playing—pretty, attractive, blonde and chewing pink gum. His pop would approve of her, and Billy—as per usual—feels nothing for her.

The party isn’t as busy as he expected. There are some people smoking pot out on the back porch, and although tempted, Billy doesn’t go near that shit until he can dive into a pool right after. His dad’s got a nose like a police dog and while he wouldn’t care if Billy drowned himself in cologne, he’d kick him out for marijuana use.

Instead he stays indoors and sticks to the alcohol, taking a break from beer for a few shots of vodka. They move to the couch and the girl drapes himself across his lap. Billy feels awkward settling his hands on her hips, playing cool even though he feels off kilter, because he needs to work to play this off. To be as natural, as casual as the other guys who do this shit without even thinking about it.

He is, in fact, thinking about it so hard that he doesn’t realize she’s leaning in until it’s too late, pushing their lips together. He can taste the orange juice and gin as he responds, kissing her back. Her lip gloss is tacky against his mouth and she doesn’t know what to do with her tongue, and neither of those are the biggest problem here.

She’s grinding down against him, her legs on either side of his own, riding him like she’s getting his dick wet. In truth, his dick doesn’t even twitch, and he wants to push her off, wants to go and get more alcohol and maybe find a boy that’s willing to suck his dick and shut up about it. Even in Hawkins, Billy should be able to find a kid willing enough.

“You’re _such_ a good kisser,” she giggles into his ear, sliding her hand down his neck. He can feel her heat against him and he’s pretty sure she’s wet, pretty sure she wants him to slide his hand between her legs.

“Thanks, hon,” he tells her, flashing her a smile in a feeble effort to distract her as he’s trying to gently push her off. “I’m going to get another drink. You want something?”

At once, her demeanor changes. Her face drops and she huffs indignantly, sliding off Billy and crossing her legs as if to say _no access for you tonight_. Billy tries not to show his relief and instead shrugs when she shakes her head _no_.

A bunch of guys have gathered in the kitchen. Harrington is featured most prominently, leaning up against the counter that holds the vodka.

“Harrington,” Billy says, the name falling from his lips unbidden.

He turns to look at Billy and Billy realizes he looks drunk as shit. His girlfriend isn’t around either and Billy’s stomach jumps a little at the idea of Harrington being _single_. He jumps to conclusions, too.

“What do you want, Billy?” he slurs, sounding exasperated.

Billy _wants_ vodka. Billy also wants to push Harrington up against the counter and kiss him.

Billy says, “That’s nice shampoo you gave me, man. Has chicks going _wild_ for me,” he smirks, waggles his eyebrows, plays straight. “So, I was wonderin’, is that the reason you have any luck with the ladies at all?”

Steve’s eyes darken and for a brief second Billy thinks he might get punched. Then Steve smirks, “Maybe you should get back to necking Lola, then, because last I saw her you weren’t taking full advantage of those _opportunities_.” Then he steps closer to Billy, his breath hot on his skin and sending a shiver down his spine, “Or people might get the wrong idea ‘bout you, think you swim—or _swing_ for the wrong team.”

Billy laughs. He doesn’t know what the right response is, doesn’t know what someone who doesn’t have to deal with these bullshit feelings would do.

“Very funny, Harrington,” he says. “See, if anything, I’d wonder the same about you, now that your princess has left the party without you.”

Steve’s eyes narrow and he says, “That’s none of your fucking business, asshole.” Then he steps out of Billy’s way and goes outside, disappearing in the crowd and the dark.

Billy takes a shot. Then another. Then he grabs the bottle and carries it with him, sharing with a couple of people that reach for it and taking several deep swigs. By the time he gets back to Lola, apologizing and offering her the drink, he’s drunk enough that it doesn’t matter anymore.

Her long nails scratch his neck when she’s back in his lap and he rinses the taste of lip gloss from his mouth with more vodka between kisses.

~~~

Steve is surprised to see Billy enter the pool on Saturday.

Because there is no meet this weekend, he is taking a couple of hours to swim laps. The party had ended awful—with Nancy drunk and Jonathan driving her home, with Nancy telling him she didn’t _love_ him anymore, and it’s a lot to deal with.

He didn’t get as drunk as he could have, but Billy’s words did sting and intoxication was as convenient a cover as any for his disappointment.

Billy ended up shitfaced for sure. Even before Steve left the party there were rumors about Billy downing an entire bottle of vodka by himself, about Billy drinking _two_ bottles of alcohol, about Billy kissing three girls and fucking a fourth. Steve doesn’t know whether any of that is true, although when he left, Billy was doing shots off a girl’s stomach.

Now it’s morning, Billy doesn’t look like his hot-shot party self. He’s squinting at the reflection of the sun in the water. There are dark circles under his eyes and he looks pale and sickly. Steve’s empathy kicks in, the urge to swim over and ask him _you OK?_ but he doesn’t. He’s not going to care about a guy who’s been an asshole to him time and again, especially not when his suffering is self-induced.

Instead he finishes eating his snack while staring at the potted plant in the corner of the room. It’s the only ornament around, apart from the flags that hang over the pool, and the only embellishment that serves no function at all other than gathering dust.

Yet, from the corners of his eyes he sees a blur of tan skin and red speedo get on the starting block, before smoothly sinking into the water.

Steve swims until Margaret, the pool’s custodian, blows her whistle.

He nods at her when he climbs out.

Kids are already in the changing room, screaming excitedly. At the lack of other swimming facilities, every Saturday afternoon the pool opens for recreational swimming. The noise almost overpowers the sound of retching coming from one of the bathroom stalls, but not entirely.

Billy’s things are still in the changing room, and this time Steve can’t help himself. He may not like Billy but he’s still a team player.

He knocks on the door, asking, “You ok?”

The toilet flushes and Billy grumbles, shifting around inside the stall. “Fuck off, Harrington.”

Steve sighs, leaning his forehead against the stall door. “Is there someone I can call?”

“What,” Billy says, and Steve can hear him take a deep breath, “ _what_ about _fuck off_ didn’t you understand?”

Steve snorts. “Fine, whatever.”

Even when he tries to be nice, Billy is the asshole Steve already knew him to be.

He isn’t surprised when Billy doesn’t leave the stall while Steve is in the changing room. He’s not sure if that is because he’s still puking, or because Billy is too ashamed to face Steve. Yet, the idea of Billy feeling shame for anything seems ridiculous, so he mentions Billy’s situation to Margaret—no doubt something Billy will hate him even more for—and then heads home to enjoy one of his few weekends off before the winter season heats up.

~~~

It’s dark outside on Monday morning, with an unseasonably early flurry of snow meeting him when he stepped outside. The weather matches his mood, empty and grey, and even the pool seems to have lost its color and appeal. Billy keeps his head down, refusing to look at anybody but, above all, Steve.

He shivers his way to the starting block and through his first dive. It isn’t until he starts his main set that his muscles slowly warm up, heating him from the inside out.

 _Faster_ , he thinks. His muscles feel heavy and weary, weighed down by the sediment of last weekend’s alcohol. Even the oxygen seems to be slow this morning, but he swims on.

On and on Billy goes.

His arms hurt, and then the ache spreads to his tired shoulders. The pain turns sharp and insistent when he rotates his arm, which is the moment he stops swimming.

Everyone else around him is still going as he pulls himself to the side.

“You okay, Billy?” Coach asks him.

Billy nods, pushing his cap and goggles from his head. “Yeah,” he says. “Or no. Old injury playing up.”

Coach nods. “Might be the change in weather,” he says. “Keep me posted, if it worsens we’ll get you to the physio, see what he can do.”

Billy nods. Physiotherapy would mean additional bills. He’s already struggling to keep up with his classes between swim practice and his job in town sweeping the garage, and any extra money right now goes towards travel meet entry fees and new speedos.

At the same time, he is aware that pushing through for another injury means that he’ll end up not swimming at all.

He’s in the changing room by himself, finds the shower the other guys fight for is the only to offer hot water, and stands there for long minutes until the ache fades from his shoulder and the cold leaves his bones.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the update being a lot later than I'd expected or hoped for. Alas, I hope you will forgive me and I hope the wait has paid off! I will try to get the next update up faster than this :)

Steve’s hard work is beginning to pay off.

He’s been putting in extra miles, extra weight training, extra effort into everything he does in and around the pool. That means that, although always one of the faster swimmers, he’s starting to become one of Hawkins’ best.

Not that Hawkins’ swim club is particularly notorious, and neither is Hawkins High’s school team—they certainly hold no match to Carmel—but Steve keeps beating his own PR-scores and most of his teammates. He’s not sure if it is because he switched from freestyle to backstroke, or if it is because he is more focused nowadays, but it helps him feel good.

That’s a surprise, really. The Monday following the party he’d gone to see Nancy, and he thought they’d talk things over. Cry and make up, maybe, like they’ve done several times over the past year—like all teen couples Steve knows. Hell, Tommy and Carol have broken up more times than he can remember, only to get back together a few days later.

Instead she’d shrugged and avoided his eyes, and while Steve doesn’t think it’s _official_ yet, he knows they’re over.

All of Hawkins High knows too. Their heads turn when he walks the corridors alone, especially when he passes Nancy without kissing her.

He focuses instead of breaking more PRs. Spends time he would have spent with Nancy in the pool, swimming slow laps until he’s bored out of his fucking mind. It is still better than doing homework, when his mind starts to wander, or tutoring, which he thinks Nancy is supposed to do but he hasn’t seen her in days and instead it’s a boy he barely knows, with big geek glasses and speech so fast that it leaves Steve dizzy and even more confused.

Maybe he could ask Dustin or one of the other kids, he thinks. Maybe they can help him.

Maybe he can get Mike to copy Nancy’s finished homework, so he doesn’t have to.

Maybe it will settle the sharp heartache spreading from his chest to his stomach. He misses her.

He hasn’t missed the way the team has responded to the slip. Tommy is surprisingly amicable, and Sean’s offered a listening ear, should he want it. Robert put a hand on his shoulder in sympathy and muttered something about rough breakups. Steve hadn’t expected less from the relay team—although Tommy can be unpredictable at time. 

He should have known that Billy wouldn’t respond as nicely. In fact, Steve is starting to think Billy doesn’t have a nice bone in his body.

When Billy had first shown up to practice sometime in the middle of October, he hadn’t introduced himself. Instead he zeroed in on Steve straight away, piercing eyes that never let Steve out of sight. It sets him on edge, until there’s nothing to do but swim.

Because, while Billy carries himself with the cocky self-confidence of a teenage boy that excels at everything he puts his mind to and looks every inch the prospective Olympian with his tan skin and muscle definition, he’s not as fast as Steve. Steve’s seen him do really well swimming fly one day and the next he lags behind even Cameron, who is notoriously slow.

He’s pretty sure that Steve consistently breaking his own PRs is what causes Billy to glower at him, not just during practice but also in the school corridors. He ignores the looks for the most part because he doesn’t _care_ , and he is aware that guys like Billy feed off attention. Because Billy is a bully, and an asshole, and he has almost everything Steve doesn’t—the grades, the girls, even the position Steve used to hold in the school’s pecking order—but he doesn’t have Steve’s power in the pool. Doesn’t have the same shot at making the States that Steve does, that Steve is going for.

He doesn’t even have a place on the relay team yet, regardless of his more-than occasional capability to outperform David.

And while he knows it’s petty, it’s kinda nice. It’s _nice_ to be good at something, to get better at it, and to see someone who hates him—and that hate sure as hell is mutual—be jealous of him.

~~~

Billy spends the second half of the week working more at the garage.

He knows he shouldn’t. He should rest his shoulder, prevent injury, which is why he isn’t swimming to start with. It’s a damn stupid idea, but he can’t sit still. He’s never been one to lie back and relax for hours on end—if he can make it fifteen minutes into a class without jiggling his leg, that’s a fucking miracle.

It’s better than staying home, though, and it sure as hell is better than watching the other guys get to swim. He misses the cool water and the soothing back-and-forth, the blue stripe in the floor that guides him whenever he opens his eyes. Keeping his shoulder healthy takes precedence and he understands that—he remembers the weeks by the side of the pool and the months of slow rehabilitation, the extra power training, the expensive physio massages.

But Saturday is still rough. Half the swim club has gone to a travel meet and he’s stuck in Hawkins. His dad is in a sour mood, trudging around the house and complaining about everything, spoiling the atmosphere, and Billy is ready to crawl out of his skin. He’s spent all day arguing, shouting at Max and getting screamed at by his dad.

He waits until midnight. Then he climbs out of the window, putting a book on the ledge so it can’t shut all the way, and starts the trek down to the pool. The walk there is quiet and probably could feel peaceful, if Billy was able to experience anything but hollow anger.

The parking lot is dark and ungodly quiet, almost terrifyingly so, the expanse of concrete somehow more terrifying than the shortcut he just took through the woods. He rounds the corner of the building, to where the windows to the men’s changing rooms are.

One of the windows doesn’t shut well and standing on tree trunk, Billy pushes against it until it opens. He breathes a sigh of relief—he doubts it will get fixed, but before it opens, there’s always feels a moment’s anxiety. There is no ocean to turn to here, the closest he could get to an open body of water is the grove, and Billy sure as hell isn’t going to swim in there in winter.

He throws his towel in before hoisting himself up, shimmying through the gap and awkwardly balancing on the ledge for a moment before he manages to twist around. Feet first, he lowers himself onto a sink before he hops down to the floor.

The water is smooth like glass, with a gentle ripple occasionally breaking the surface whenever a draft sneaks in. The moonlight reflects off it, painting the room a silvery blue, with dancing spots of light across the ceiling.

He undresses right there in the pool area, so he can keep an eye on his belongings. It makes him feel a little more like he has a claim on the space, like tonight the pool is all _his_. Similarly, he doesn’t wear any gear. No cap, no goggles, no speedos.

It reminds him a little of the night swims in California. He misses the cool-hot breeze and the sand under his feet, the gentle lapping of the waves, but he can nearly trick himself into believing that the surreal feel of a dry pool floor under his toes is almost as good.

The water is colder than usual when he dives in, and it leaves him breathless, his lungs shriveling in his chest. He holds his breath until he can’t any longer, then surfacing and turning to his back. With slow strokes, he allows himself to get used to the temperature. Then he turns to his front and starts to swim freestyle.

To not aggravate the old injury, he knows he needs to take it easy, move slowly. Still, his muscles slowly warm up and with that, his mind calms down. He can’t hear his dad’s screams in his ears anymore, he can’t feel the oppressive climate of order and despise at home. His lungs expand more easily and taking deep breaths, he submerges himself time and again.

It is only when a dull soreness starts to blossom in his shoulder that Billy turns to his back and starts to float. He keeps his eyes closed and his arms spread to his sides, finally feeling safe for a while. He doesn’t have to be on edge here. No one is going to break into the pool. He can be alone, let his mind wander without worrying about what someone might see, think, or notice. The slosh of water in his ears brings back happier memories, of California, of going swimming with his mom whenever he had a day off school—of swim clubs that brought laughter and friendship, not this empty ache of Hawkins, a void that he wants to fill but doesn’t know how.

Once he is back home, he crawls under the sheets and thinks of sand between his toes and the welcoming sea, the sun that he misses because nothing here is golden the way he wants it to be.

And when he falls asleep, he dreams of an endless pool to swim across. Tommy and Harrington are there, shouting at him although they’re swimming and both a mile ahead somehow.

They finish, Tommy and Harrington winning while Billy is still fighting to make it to the finish. He knows there is no end to the swimming, to the fighting. There are flags and crowds and he tries, his shoulder hurts and his lungs burn and he’s going, going, going without ever getting to where he needs to be.

-

His dad doesn’t look up from his newspaper when Billy enters the kitchen. Billy looks at the scrambled eggs and dirty pan, the cup of coffee and the empty pot, and he sighs while grabbing an apple and some bread.

He doesn’t want to sit at that table and pretend he’s enjoying himself.

Instead he makes a sandwich, figures he can eat when he’s out at the shop. He’s picking up an extra shift—the first school meet isn’t until next week, and all rich kids are off for a Saturday-only travel meet.

His dad never looks up. The only sound he makes comes from his lighter, clicking as he sucks on a Marlboro.

It’s the way it always was. Billy pats down his pockets to check for his keys and wallet, grabs his food, and leaves without saying goodbye. He’s not sure that’s something his pop expects at this point.

He spends all day swiping the floor and cleaning work surfaces.

Outside for a smoke break, he sees Harrington drive past. Billy doesn’t acknowledge him—he knows he doesn’t have opportunities like Harrington does. That he’d be a better swimmer if he _did_ , even if all guys seem to think it’s his penchant for partying that makes him worse. That’s bullshit, of course.

Billy wishes he were swimming today, too.

~~~

With most weekends lost to meets, Steve forgets the boredom of Hawkins on Sunday.

He doesn’t mind driving Dustin around town, but when he’s forced to sit in on a roleplaying game the kids play, he loses interest. They’re all invested in the story—even Max, who he’d pegged for someone more into _active_ sports.

The rules confuse him, and he’s not sure why the die are twelve or twenty sided. Something to do with storylines, he thinks. His character sheet is a mess of various handwriting—Lucas and Dustin and Max scribbling on top of each other because they wanted to “change just this bit, Steve, it’s fine, I promise! We’ll talk you through it!”

Talk they do. He wishes he’d never helped Dustin when his cat vanished. He’d wandered into Steve’s backyard, looking desperate and forlorn, and Steve helped him look for the pet. Then came the time Dustin got chased by a middle school bully, running into Steve who was returning home from basketball practice two summers ago.

Ever since then, Dustin’s gullibility has sparked something of a brotherly instinct in Steve, and Mrs. Henderson seems to think he’s a good influence on the kid. It’s especially confusing because he thinks that Dustin and the other kids genuinely enjoy hanging out with him, and now he and Nancy don’t see each other as often, he is left with a sea of time that he doesn’t want to waste at home.

It’s sad that he doesn’t have something better to do on his day off.

Steve doesn’t want to be around Nancy too much because whenever he looks into her eyes, he sees the gentle sympathy for him, the words _I’m sorry, Steve_ still trembling in the air between them. He sees the way she looks at Jonathan nowadays—and he knows that it is no different from how she saw Jonathan the past six months.

It is painful and he tries not to think about her. He hates the throbbing pain in his chest and his stomach, the tightening in his throat that won’t leave, no matter how often he swallows.

“ _Steve!_ ” Dustin interrupts his daydream. “Are you even paying attention?”

“I am!” Steve looks up so fast his knees bump against the table. It’s a little too small, like it’s made for kids. He doesn’t fit and he knows it, a fucking metaphor for his life where no matter how hard he tries, it never seems good enough. Steve is used to the second-best. “I just—I don’t feel well,” he tells Dustin. “I’m headed off. Do you want me to drive you home or can you hitch a ride?”

“Aw, but Steve!” Dustin protests. Steve shakes his head.

He thinks he hears one of the kids whisper about why Steve’s there at all, and figures that’s damn right. He doesn’t feel comfortable around them, nor anywhere else—the only place Steve feels he can breathe is in the pool.

-

He returns to a silent home.

His dad is in his office while his mother is out socializing. He doesn’t want to intrude on their lives, and they don’t intermingle with Steve’s. Sure, they eat dinner together, his mom comes to see him at meets, but they are not a very close family.

Instead, he grabs a sandwich and a bottle of soda before heading to his bedroom. He has an unread book for English and a half-finished calculus assignment he gave up on yesterday. There’s not much else to do before dinner, before the ever-so awkward conversations and polite small talk.

He doesn’t try calculus, but the book is fine for the twenty pages he perseveres until he dozes off, falling asleep and not waking up until his mom knocks on the door. The page under his cheek is wrinkled, and Steve scowls at it.

~~~

Billy senses something is different when he enters the parking lot.

Hawkins is deserted this late at night, and he can see the silhouette of a car parked in the corner of the lot. He hopes it doesn’t belong to some punk breaking into the pool. Not when he can feel awful anxiety build in his stomach, when he’s desperate for a way out of his anger and frustration.

He’s walking slower than usual, listening for any unfamiliar sounds. The window is cracked open as usual but he can’t see lights inside. There are no voices either but holding his breath, he thinks he can hear the splash of water.

Billy hopes it’s his paranoia.

He lands on the floor, almost falling over and cursing quietly. The splashing grows louder. Wandering into the dressing room, he spots white shoes under one of the benches, a grey coat that he recognizes. It belongs to someone he never would have expected at the pool at night.

Billy knows he should go home. He knows this isn’t a situation fit for escalation. Regardless, anger builds in his stomach and he begins to undress. There is no etiquette for this, but the pool is the only place in Hawkins Billy thinks of as _private_ , as _quiet_ , as a place where he can be himself unconditionally.

The soles of his feet hurt on the tiles as he stomps into the pool.

“Harrington!” he shouts. “You fucking _asshole_ , what are you doing in there!”

Harrington doesn’t hear him, mid-lap with his head underwater. Typical.

“Motherfucker!” Billy screams. He feels breathless already, his head hot and heavy and his control slipping. He watches as the asshole in the pool stops, his head popping up. He’s wearing his cap and goggles, which he pushes up.

“What—” he stammers.

“Don’t you have a fucking pool at home?” Billy demands.

“Billy,” Harrington starts again. His shoulders sag and he’s stepping backwards. It just drives Billy madder.

“Get the _fuck_ out,” he repeats. “Get out! Get out, Harrington!”

This is his place. Billy needs this to belong to him, and only him. In his angry haze he’s only half-aware he sounds like his pop. His eyes and throat burn with his own venom, bubbling to the surface like he’s tarmac on a hot day, popping at the slightest touch.

He’s not sure if Harrington responds, all he hears is the rush of blood in his ears as he jumps into the pool. There is no grace to his movements and Billy feels slow, clawing his way through the water like it’s custard. Harrington has started to back away, towards the edge of the pool, and Billy gets angrier by the foot.

“Get out,” he screams again, his throat raw.

Billy isn’t used to fighting in the water. Roughhousing he’s done before but his left hook fails with the water halting his momentum and Harrington slips from his fingers as he steps back again.

“Calm the fuck down, fuckface,” he tells Billy. He’s straightened himself, looming over Billy and reaching for him.

Billy bares his teeth and swims after him. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he says. Then he’s jumping up, climbing half on top of the other boy. His punches are short and sharp against Harrington’s shoulders, his chest, his knees digging into Harrington’s stomach as he tries to push him underwater.

“Leave! The! Pool!” Billy cries, adrenalin rushing through his body. He’s lost all control and it feels good, exhilarating. All the frustration of the past weeks, months, year finally erupts as he pummels Harrington, keeps going, going, _going_ —

Until he’s pushed back, forcefully.

Water engulfs him, gets in his nose and his airway and it’s terrifying. For a moment, Billy thinks he’ll drown in the acrid chlorine. There’s an arm around his waist that he tries to push off, thinks that this is it, this is his end and he deserves it.

He’s pulled up from the water still screaming, coughing and sneezing water. Harrington drags him to the side of the pool and Billy can feel fingers tighten on his ribcage. While he’s gasping for air, the urge to fight seeps from his body, down his spine and into the heat of his guts.

It’s only then that he sees how wide Harrington’s eyes are, how brown they are up close, how dark the circles under them. His lips are red and plump, and Billy’s gaze is drawn down, his body responding in the worst of ways, pressed this close to another boy. He needs to get away but he’s frozen in place.

“This isn’t just yours,” Harrington tells Billy.

“Oh no?” he says. Panic is rising in his chest, because he needs to do something and all he can think is _kiss_.

He shoves Harrington up against the wall instead, his arm braced across his chest. Billy knows he could leave. He could swim away and he doubts Harrington would say shit about it. He looks tired as all hell, like he’s been crying all night, and if Billy were a better man he’d feel ashamed at the way he’s treating Steve.

He’s not that man.

Alarm bells ring in Billy’s head as he realizes he’s getting hard, his body responding to Steve’s vicinity—his naked skin, the soft exhalations that he can hear. He doesn’t know what to do, aware that if he moves he’ll draw attention to his dick and if he doesn’t, well. He doesn’t know what will happen, but _something_ will and it won’t end well.

The pool is meant as an escape, a way out of these feelings and away from shameful fantasies. It’s the only place his dad’s accusations didn’t exist but now their proof presses up against Steve’s leg.

Harrington’s eyes close as he lets out a shivery breath. It takes a long moment before Billy realizes that Harrington is hard too. That he can feel the bulge in his speedos, that it’s not just him.

“Fuck,” Billy whimpers.

Harrington’s arm doesn’t move from his waist. Billy’s been craving contact for so long that it works its magic on him, dissipating his anger and discontent and replacing it with want that pools hot and heavy in his core. The water sloshes around their chests, cold compared to the heat of their bodies, and he sees Harrington’s flush extend from his cheeks to his collarbones.

Billy can feel his resolve to never do this with a man crack, then crumble to nothingness. He can feel Harrington’s breath on his lips and he leans closer, brushing their mouths together.

It’s exhilarating. Billy wants to have all of it.

Harrington’s thigh slots between Billy’s legs and he gasps. It’s something to grind against, and he can feel the hot line of _King Steve_ ’s dick against his hip. Billy’s heart races leaning in, carefully kissing Harrington and hoping he won’t be pushed off.

He isn’t. Right off the bat, Harrington’s fingers thread into Billy’s hair and he kisses like he means it. Billy aches for it, pushing into the contact, drinking in the taste and the way Harrington’s arm feels around his waist. The water between their bodies is hot and the rocking motions pull in cool water that sends shivers down his spine.

“Fuck,” Harrington pants, breaking the kiss. Billy seizes the opportunity to drag his mouth along the planes of hot skin, to taste the pool and tinny skin underneath. It reminds him of the sun, the California heat, and it distracts him from all the pain in his guts.

Then he seeks out Harrington’s mouth again, _Steve_ ’s mouth, kissing him hard. He’s close, grabbing Steve’s ass and pulling his thigh between his legs to increase leverage. Steve’s hands move down, grabbing Billy’s ass and squeezing, pulling him closer and settling into a frantic rhythm together. That’s how he comes, losing time and thought riding out his climax.

Coming down from his orgasm, he buries his head in Steve’s neck. He can smell chlorine, evaporating into the air and filling his expanding lungs.

Steve’s hands tighten around his waist a few times before relaxing too. Billy hears him take a couple of deep breaths, the _click_ as he swallows, and then his touch is gone, hands slipping between their bodies and letting in fresh water that feels uncomfortably cool.

Steve moves first. Instead of pushing Billy away he lifts himself from the pool, avoiding his eyes. Moonlight glints off his muscular back as he walks away, and Billy watches demurely. Steve’s body is more familiar, somehow, than it has any right to be—to his eyes, and now to his touch, too.

Lifting his hand, Billy can see it’s shaking. His legs feel weak and he wants to cry because he knew, he’s known for ages—but this solidifies things he’s tried to run from for so long now.

 _Gay_. He thinks. _Faggot_. Words he associates with being weak, with his dad’s anger, and they sink into his stomach until he feels nauseous.

Suffocating on his feelings, on his tears, he dives underwater and he swims.

For once, it doesn’t help.


	3. Chapter 3

  
Steve throws _Fahrenheit 451_ across the room, where it hits the wall with a satisfying smack.

He’s spent most of his evening reading the dancing letters and he can’t get them to stand still. Nancy mentioned there was a word for that, a diagnosis, but he doesn’t remember what it was and it doesn’t matter because he still has to read, anyway.

A world without books sounds pretty good. He’d have more time for swimming.

It’s ten pm and he gives up on homework for the night, instead hitting _play_ on his cassette deck. It takes a few moments to realize that the tape playing is the last Nancy had given him before everything went to shit and he takes a deep breath. Them being officially over, done with, hasn’t sunk in yet and even the happy memories are painful.

Instead he looks at the pool, empty in the backyard. When his parents drained it, too late into the season as always, he was still with Nancy. He still thought they’d be happy again, that they just hit a rough patch. Now he wonders if maybe he was pretending, if maybe he’s always known they weren’t meant to last.

It’s a good thing that the winter season is busy, his schedule packed with practice and travel meets and swim camp during the Christmas break. There is no time to stop and think and he’s grateful for that.

~~~

When Billy breaks into the pool after meeting Harrington there, he expects the release of tension swimming has always been. Instead he sits on the side of the pool and finds himself staring at the empty spot he was two days ago, kissing a boy.

The second time, he doesn’t even make it to the water. He feels sick to his stomach, assaulted by memories and the associated feelings. The light reflecting off the water reminds him of the way the moonlight had looked, reflecting blue off Steve’s shoulders, and in the silence, he can imagine the echoes of Steve gasping moans into Billy’s mouth.

Instead of torturing himself, Billy returns home. There, he pulls out his emergency stash, cheap whiskey he detests. Usually the taste is enough to keep him from drinking more than a sip, but he closes his nose and takes several deep drinks, fast enough that he suppresses a cough while heat settles in his stomach. The burn clears his sinuses and his thoughts, burning away feelings until nothing is left but the gentle sway of the world around him.

He puts on headphones and curls up beside his stereo set because he doesn’t want to wake his dad. The floor is cold under him, the draught pulling into his muscles, so he ends up grabbing his blanket. Huddled under the duvet, he plays Led Zeppelin and lets the music lull him to sleep. He can deal with the crack in his neck when he wakes up.

~~~

Globs or shaving cream drift by his feet and Steve idly toes them towards the drain so he can shave his legs without slipping in the mess.

It’s the customary pre-meet ritual. He’s already shaved his chest and arms, and these are the final touches. Some of the showers are running, others are not, and Steve rinses his razorblade before starting on his left leg.

He’s careful not to look up.

It doesn’t really matter because he knows Billy is staring at him. The back of his neck prickles and he knows his cheeks are flushed red.

Billy isn’t shy, Steve knows. He likes to show off his body, prancing around in front of the swim team and giving the girls plenty to look at. Today is no different and even from the corner of his vision he can see Billy stand there with his legs wide and dick pushed to the side, so he can shave his junk.

“Trying to make it look bigger, Hargrove?” Tommy calls him out.

Billy laughs and shakes his head, dick in hand, unashamed by the way it twitches.

“Just optimizing my performance,” Billy wags his eyebrows before flicking his tongue between the v of his fingers. Steve flushes hotter, which is unfortunate because Billy focuses on him again. “What are you looking at, you need shaving tips or something?” he asks.

Steve shakes his head. “No thanks, I’m good.”

He tries not to think about the heat in his body as he cleans the last soap from his body. He’s more anxious than the meet warrants, although it _is_ the first time they’re swimming a relay medley in the new configuration. He’s still unsure how Billy made it on the team with his inconsistent times and no proof that he does well under pressure, but coach seems willing to bet on it.

“Feel ok?” Sean asks him.

Steve nods, pulling on his cap. “Yeah, pretty good,” he lies. “You?”

“Yeah,” Sean laughs, clapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder. Steve smiles at him, ignoring Tommy and Billy walking by. “Not as confident as you, hot shot, but I think we’ll be fine.”

-

They don’t win the relay.

It’s a close call and coming in third is better than the fourths and fifths they were getting last year. Steve snags second in the 200-meter backstroke and he knows he’ll be hailed as team hero. He could have done better.

His mom comes up to hug him before he gets to his towel, and her silk dress clings to his wet skin. She doesn’t care about chlorine damage, at least not in public. He figures it doesn’t matter anyway, when she keeps up with the latest fashion. She’ll never wear the dress out in public again anyway.

Her enthusiasm is embarrassing, and he knows the team will give him shit for it later.

“I need to shower,” he tells her, trying to pull away. “Mom, mom, _please_. I’ll see you at home, OK?”

“Okay, but Stevie,” she reaches for him, “I just want you to know I’m proud of you, okay? You did so well today.”

“And now you’ve told me,” he tells her, clenching his teeth. “Go talk to one of your friends or whatever.”

Tommy laughs when he finally manages to separate himself from her. “At least you’ve got _one_ female admirer.”

Steve smirks in response, pulling up some of his old bravado. It’s funny, kind of; Steve has plenty of female admirers especially now word’s out that he and Nancy broke up. “Yeah, sure,” he tells Tommy. “At least I’m making my mom proud, unlike you bunch of assholes.”

And he wants to brag, say _yeah, that’s right, I’m better than you_ because in the pool that is true. Instead he bites down on his tongue, avoiding more unwanted attention—because anything could lead to questions about Nancy, and he doesn’t want to talk about her.

“Party at my place tonight,” Sean shouts at the changing guys. “Bring your girlfriends, have them bring their single friends, and don’t forget the alcohol!”

A party would be nice to take his mind off things, Steve thinks. There’s plenty of shit in his life that he doesn’t want to be thinking about, and while he’s not a big boozer he could do with a couple of beers and maybe a kiss by a pretty girl. Some distraction from the ache in his gut, the empty hole where his heart should be.

On the bus, he finds a place towards the front and curls up in his seat, staring out the window. Some people are smoking outside, including the coach and Billy. He can’t hear what they’re saying but he sees coach’s frustration in the set of his shoulders. Billy is looking flustered and he is frowning, and Steve knows he’s seen him that way before. He’s angry and ready to charge, and Steve tears his eyes away before his thoughts go somewhere they shouldn’t.

-

His mom seems to have forgotten about Steve’s performance by the time they sit down for dinner. He’s not sure if she’s talked about it with his dad—she might have, she got home before him—but by now it is more important that Wanda and Brenda and Sharon envied her jacket.

The spaghetti is good enough, so he focuses on his food. His dad does the same thing, keeping his eyes on his plate.

He hopes he’s not prematurely turning into his old man. Yet, he remembers the dinners he’s had with Nancy, here and at the Wheelers’, when there was time to laugh and get a few words in for himself. He remembers her leg pressed against his and her hand on his thigh, holding hands under the table until they were done with dessert.

Today he excuses himself immediately after filling the dishwasher.

“No drinks,” his father says over his newspaper.

Steve suppresses a snort. He doesn’t think it’s a joke, but he can pretend. “Sure, I won’t.”

After getting ready, he ends up walking the way to Sean’s house. It’s not entirely in the affluent neighborhood the Harrington residence towers over but close enough. The road is slippery with snow on top of sleet and he walks slowly, watching his step.

Cars drive past every so often. They’re usually teens headed for Sean’s party and sometimes the older residents of nearby neighborhoods. The loudest car by far is Hargrove’s.

He hears the low rumble of the engine in the distance, well before the road is lit by the Camaro’s headlights. He’s seen the way Billy drives around town and heard the complaints by the kids about how he likes to pretend to head for them until the last moment, and Steve decides to step aside to let him pass.

The frozen roadside grass cracks and shatters under his soles and Billy speeds by with a long-haired girl in the passenger seat. That’s all he sees before the lights grow smaller—Steve listens until he doesn’t hear the engine anymore, and he supposes that means Billy must have arrived.

He spends the rest of his walk contemplating whether he wants to go at all. Maybe he should turn around and go to sleep, get up early tomorrow to get a few extra miles in. It’s not anxiety in the pit of his stomach, he tells himself, no nerves, not memories he wishes he never made.

He might just be tired. Yes, he thinks he must be.

His legs carry him to the party anyway.

~~~

Billy passes out on Sean’s couch.

By then the party has dwindled down to a small group of people. Some of them are talking, others put their mouths to different uses than that. Billy is too fucking wasted for any of it—he throws his arm across his eyes and goes to sleep.

He wakes up when someone lands on top of him, looking for a place to crash. With an _oof_ , Billy gets up and lets the guy take his place. It’s still early, dark and silent, and he’s still drunk.

The Camaro is outside, he knows, and he wants to get to his own bed.

His stomach tries to revolt but Billy ignores it, swallowing the sour bile as he pulls his key from his pocket. After that, he drives back home slowly, parks the car where his dad expects it to be, and climbs in through his bedroom window. At this point, it’s mostly convenience—if the front door doesn’t open there’s a decreased chance his dad will catch him wasted and give him hell.

He considers going to bed right away but his mouth tastes like an animal died in it. He had plenty of vodka and after that kissed a couple of girls, and his lips feel tacky with their gloss. Remembering their saccharine-sweet perfumes is what undoes him, leaving him stumbling to the toilet to quietly puke. Afterwards he brushes his teeth, undresses, and curls up under his blankets to black out.

-

He wakes from someone rapping fingers against his door.

“Billy!”

The knocking syncs up with his pounding headache. Billy groans and turns around, pulling his pillow over his ears.

“William!” His dad insists, angrier now.

Billy doesn’t want to get up. He wants to sleep and not think—especially not about Steve walking around in those tight, _tight_ jeans all night, the way he’d had to keep himself from reaching out all while feeling like a gawking girl. He wants to stop feeling miserable.

“William _Hargrove_!”

The last knock sounds like a punch violent enough that Billy wonders if the door will shatter. His heart races in the most awful way possible, set off by his dad’s anger and the after-alcohol nausea, and he climbs out of bed, shuffling to the door before unlocking.

“What’s it?” he groans, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He hopes his dad doesn’t see he’s on edge.

“What did I tell you about locking your door?” his dad scoffs, stepping past Billy and into the room. “And it reeks in here, you should clean when we get back.” He picks up some paper, shuffling it into a slightly neater pile, looking disappointed in Billy. “Did you forget we’re headed to Indianapolis today?”

Billy doesn’t remember anyone saying anything about Indianapolis, so he shuts up. Confessing he doesn’t always listen would only lead to worse admonishing.

“C’mon, get dressed,” he’s told. “And wash your face, you look terrible.”

Billy nods. “Yes sir.” He hopes he sounds normal, not like the trembling wreck he feels like. His stomach turns around itself again and he swallows, even as he feels himself shrink now his dad can’t see.

Maybe if he gets all alcohol out of his system before they leave, today won’t be too bad.

Billy tells himself a lot of little lies every day. They make life a little more bearable.

-

The two-hour drive to the city would have been better driving the Camaro. Instead his dad has him sit in the back of the family Sedan and listen to him talk about being good citizens. He somehow manages to fit in a tirade about keeping the volume down.

He grinds his teeth and tries stay silent. During lunch, his dad is glaring at him over his plate, like he is daring Billy to say something he shouldn’t. Billy stares back, shoving his burger into his mouth, daring him to say anything.

The skate shop is their next stop.

It’s unfair, Billy thinks. His dad threatened to take Max’ board away from her several times, him and Susan called it _unbecoming for a young lady_ multiple times, and now that Billy accidentally broke it—and it _was_ an accident because he hadn’t seen it in the driveway before the weight of his car snapped it in half—they’re supportive of her. Need him to buy a new board.

“Pick whichever you’d like,” his dad says. The smugness is in his voice and face as he adds, “It’s not _our_ money anyway, is it, Billy?”

He clasps his hand over Billy’s shoulder, rubbing gently. Like he’s being a good dad, jovial and fun—and Billy is certain that is what the shopkeeper sees. He knows the touch would have worked to calm him down had it been anyone else touching him, but his dad feeds his fury.

He inhales sharply. Experiences the urge to bite down on his thumbnail, and gets out of the situation by saying, “I’m going for a smoke. Have fun.”

He’s never been happier with a _No Smoking_ sign on a door.

For long agonizing minutes, he watches Max through the shop window, slowly making her way along the boards that are mounted on the wall.

He pictures the drain on his savings, imagines Max picking the most expensive board with expensive new wheels and whatever else comes with it. He expects a smile and he can see it all play out, the way he’ll lose his hard-earned meet money, tapping into the meagre savings he’s got to get out of Hawkins as fast as possible.

Susan’s eyes meet Billy’s. She looks anxious, yet when she leans in to whisper something at his dad, Billy turns his back to them. He doesn’t want to watch; instead he lights another cigarette and takes a drag deep enough he feels it in his guts.

He’s four cigs in when his dad taps his shoulder, that stern look still on his face. Billy wordlessly follows him inside, feeling the weight situation.

He knows he should’ve checked the driveway. Max leaves her shit around the house and leaves the god-damn board everywhere—Billy’s nearly broken his neck stepping on it more than once. It’s not just the money, either. It’s his dad’s control, the tight leash he’s on, the blame that’s on him completely.

He figures he’ll have to squeeze in some extra shifts, see if he can swipe the garage on week evenings. He’ll have to miss out on a meet or two. Cut down on the cigarettes and alcohol.

His throat aches as he pays. At least the board is nice, with a black and white skull design. Different from what he expected of Max—but clearly, she’s not beyond surprising him. He’s not sure why he’s surprised that she’s gone for one of the cheaper boards. It’s still more money than he’d like to part with, but he may not have to skip out on extra meets.

On the way back to the car, Max joins Susan. They’re laughing and talking to each other, the board looking natural tucked under Max’s arm.

“I don’t think that was fair,” he tells his dad, still looking at the skateboard. They’re still in public—he can speak his mind now. At home, he doesn’t know what response to expect, but here his dad won’t lose control.

“What?”

“Letting her pick anything she wanted,” Billy continues. He knows he’s not most angry because he had to pay for the broken board. It’s his dad being an asshole for no reason. He lights another cigarette, just so he won’t have to look to his side and feel small again. “That’s _my_ money. She could’ve spent it all.”

“You’re being paranoid,” he’s told. “I was joking, you should’ve known that.”

Billy shrugs.

There’s nothing else he can say. He feels like an ass, and on the way back to Hawkins he rolls down the window. His dad won’t let him smoke in their butt ugly family car, so the cool air on his fingers has to do for now.

-

Max’ knocks on his door are tentative, quiet. That’s how he knows it’s her.

“Whatcha want?” he asks, opening the door and looking down at her.

“Look,” Max says, avoiding his eyes and shuffling her feet. “Thanks for getting a new board.” Then she peers down the corridor, maybe to see if someone’s eavesdropping. Whatever it is, she doesn’t find it because she continues talking. “You can try it first, if you want?”

It’s an offer so startlingly out of character that Billy laughs. For a moment he pictures it, skating down the street and feeling the wind in his hair. Then the image derails, him crashing into the concrete and breaking his wrist. A memory of California crops up on its heel; he remembers James getting his skateboard and promptly falling back, ending the session with a trip to the E.R. department. He’s sure he wouldn’t fare better, not on a tiny board with four even tinier wheels.

“Thanks for the offer, Max,” he says, “but no, thanks.”

Max seems surprised at his response too, but when she looks up, she is smiling and Billy smiles back. Then she’s running out of the house, and Billy slams his door shut behind her.

He wants to get back to reading but can’t get to it—not until after he’s peeked out of the window to watch her try out her new wheels for a couple of minutes. Then she skates off to wherever, leaving Billy’s sight.

He sighs and rubs at his eyes, picking up the book and resuming the story.


	4. Chapter 4

Christmas sneaks up on Steve.

He’s busy swimming and doing homework, spending ages to get through the ever-increasing load of reading required. While he hates most of it, there is something nice about the monotony of it all—the lack of thinking required now he can function on auto-pilot. It’s a nice reprieve from thinking about Nancy, the way she now holds hands with Jonathan in the corridors and how his stomach stings when he sees them.

“You coming tonight?” Tommy asks him during the Friday practice.

Steve shrugs. “Dunno, man. I might just sleep.”

Tommy laughs. “No way, dude. You love breaking and entering the pool! There’ll be alcohol,” he says, throwing his arm around Steve’s shoulder and pulling him closer, whispering, “and chicks. Carol’s gonna bring some of her friends from Carmel. They’re _hot_ , she showed me pictures.”

“And Carol’s fine with you thinking other girls are hot?” Steve asks, redirecting Tommy’s focus. The truth is that he’s not sure if he _wants_ to go—not if the party will include spin-the-bottle and Billy Hargrove.

“Oh, nah, nah,” Tommy tuts, shaking his head, “don’t try and distract me. Ten P.M. tonight, Harrington, be there or be square!”

He walks out of the room backwards, pointing at Steve. Steve rolls his shoulders before continuing to pack his bag, rolling his wet trunks into his towel. Only then he notices Billy is still there, looking at him strangely.

Steve ignores him even as his cheeks flush. He pulls on his shirt and coat, somehow in a hurry to leave although he can’t pinpoint why.

-

Steve arrives at ten thirty.

He parks his car near the entry and walks in. The door is unlocked; the custom of breaking into the pool during the first weekend of the Christmas break was established in the sixties and it had long ago been decided to give the Hawkins swim club teens this one night, once a year.

His speedos feel itchy under his jeans, and while he carries a towel in his backpack, he isn’t sure if he wants to swim tonight.

The party already is in full swing. The dressing rooms have clothes strewn across the floor and when he enters the pool area, he finds that Jack has brought a boombox he uses to blast Top 40 music. _Sea of Love_ seems an appropriate song for a group of about fifteen teens, almost evenly split between guys and girls and with several of them already paired off together.

He sees Anne make eyes at him and pat the floor beside her, so Steve joins her in the circle.

“What are we doing?” Steve asks her, leaning in.

“Spin the bottle!” she smiles brilliant white teeth—her dad is a dentist, and she’s the kind of girl his parents want him to come home with. The moment he thinks about dating her, Nancy’s face is superimposed over her and he sits back.

Instead he reaches into his bag for a can of Colonial and pulls off his shirt. Anne pushes her knee against Steve’s leg and he lets her.

Looking around and taking in the scene, he’s pretty sure Tommy, Carol and Jack are well on their way to hammered, while Sean is floating on his back in the pool, throwing an inflatable ball back and forth with a girl Steve hasn’t seen before. He thinks she might be Sean’s girlfriend from a nearby town—he thinks he’s heard Sean talk about something like that, at least—but he can’t be sure. Also in the pool he sees Billy with his tongue down some girl’s throat, their hands under water doing God-knows-what.

His beer is lukewarm after hiding it in his car for a couple of days. It doesn’t taste great but even that adds to the spirit of the evening and helps him _wanting_ to party.

When _Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go_ comes on, Tommy, Sean and Ferdinand join in an out-of-tune rendition. It doesn’t take long before Tommy sprints to the pool, jumping in with the biggest splash he can muster.

That is what has Billy look up.

Their eyes meet over the girl’s shoulders and Steve’s stomach knots together. His lips are red and swollen from the kiss and his eyes are a fiery blue. Steve swallows, his mouth dry, and he tries to look away but finds that he can’t. Instead he momentarily loses his air. He remembers making Billy look this way. He remembers the heat in his belly; the way Billy sounded and how his teeth scraped his skin, tipping Steve over the edge.

His dick twitches in his pants. Immediately, Steve pushes away the memory of skin, smooth and hot under his fingers, turning back to his beer instead. It doesn’t quench his thirst, but it helps break their weird little staring contest.

Anne leans back against him, and this time Steve puts his arm around her.

He shakes his head to himself and she looks up at him, raising her eyebrows in question.

“Nothing,” he tells her. “It’s nothing. Do you wanna play a game?”

~~~

Billy _was_ having fun.

He enjoyed talking to Mary, kissed her for a bit—and then he looked up to see King Assface sit by the the pool, staring Billy down.

There is a weird moment between them, with Steve looking at him wide-eyed. Billy glares back and hopes it’s enough to get Steve to leave to leave, _hopes_ that it is, but instead Steve breaks the moment and cozies up to some fucking chick.

He decides he’s bored of Mary. Sure, she’s cute. Sure, she’s—there.

He wants Steve’s eyes on him again. It’s something he recognizes from his friends’ stories; wanting, desperately, to be the center of attention. To impress Steve the way they wanna impress their crushes or girlfriends. He’s nervous and jittery and in no mood to touch Mary some more.

Instead he moves over to the side. Mary looks disappointed, asking, “What’s wrong, Billy?”

She must think it’s her—and she wouldn’t be wrong. Billy won’t tell her that, though.

“Not enough alcohol, baby,” he whispers in her ear. It’s easy to slip back in character, brushing his hand over her shoulder, charming her with a smile. “Let’s get some.”

He’s already decided he’ll get trashed. He needs the distraction, something to help him focus on anyone—any _thing_ but Steve, who somehow always finds his way into Billy’s view and he doesn’t _want_ that to happen.

Tommy’s got a bottle of vodka in his bag that Billy takes a few deep sips of. He suppresses the reflex to cough and smirks down at Tommy, still in the pool, when he complains about the unequal share Billy claims.

“Sorry man, better tolerance,” he says.

-

While playing Spin The Bottle, Billy carefully avoids Steve’s gaze.

They’re on opposite sides of the circle and so far nothing bad has happened. If he could have, Billy would have opted out of play, but he knows he can’t—it would be too suspicious, too contrary to the person he pretends to be at parties.

He doesn’t think he’ll have to kiss Steve anyway, if the bottle lands on him. So far, Carol has kissed Jessica but that has been the only same-sex pairing, greeted by cheers and hoots from the rest of the group.

He ends up kissing Carol too, her hand finding its way down to his ass. He could push her away but allows it, finds that it’s worth it when Tommy glares at him. When it’s Steve’s turn, Billy looks away.

“Ooh,” Tommy whistles, “a boy!”

Billy looks up, his heart hammering in his chest. He hopes the bottle landed on him as much as he doesn’t, already thinking about Steve’s soft lips against his own. 

It’s not. The bottleneck is pointed at Sean, who can’t stop laughing. Harrington doesn't look necessarily happy, but he’s not perturbed by the situation either. When the girls start to shout at Sean and Steve to kiss, they lean in.

It’s nothing more than a peck, but it’s enough to render Billy jealous, the green-eyed monster coming for his guts.

~~~

Steve is getting tired as the alcohol starts to leave his system. He craves his bed, the silence of his room and comfort of his mattress.

More people are getting ready to leave, and it’s nice that he won’t have to excuse himself early. He’s gathered his things and is about to pull on his shoes when Billy bumps into his shoulder on a mad dash out of the locker room. Initially, Steve figures Billy has gone to puke—he’s had enough alcohol to be at that point.

He doesn’t particularly want to follow Billy after the last time he tried. Hell, he’s pretty sure it’d aggravate the situation now that Billy is drunk, not just hungover. Steve certainly doesn’t want him to puke on his shoes or whatever.

At the same time, the idea that someone could drown in their own vomit is enough to make him anxious and when no one else follows him, Steve reluctantly gets up.

He checks the toilets first. They’re empty, so he walks on to the pool. By then the hall is empty. There are some empty beer cans still strewn about, an abandoned towel floats in the pool, and Billy is sitting with his back turned to the door and his shoulders hunched over. Even then, Steve can see he’s holding his head in his hands, his legs moving side to side like he can’t stay still.

“Uh,” Steve hesitantly announces himself. He’s pretty sure Billy is having a panic attack and he doesn’t want to intrude on him—but he also doesn’t want to leave Billy alone. Not if he isn’t OK.

Billy shakes his head, dragging his fingers through his damp hair. He’s not saying _fuck off_ like Steve thought he might; instead he starts to pull himself together, straightening his shoulders and obviously fighting to keep his legs and hands still.

“You alright?” he asks, slowly walking over to Steve. That way Billy can tell him to leave if he needs to—but if anything, Billy staying in the same place seems to be an indication that he’s fine with Steve being there, or maybe he’s just fine with not being alone.

After his first big meet, where he had a panic attack, Steve’d been to counselling a few times. It was with a lady his mom knew, well into her forties and still a hippy, but she helped him massively with the breathing exercises she taught him.

“If you want me to fuck off,” he says, sitting down next to Billy, “I will.”

Billy doesn’t respond. He keeps his face down and his breath is audible, quiet gasps for air as his shoulders tense up again. Steve suppresses his own anxiety—he’s not sure what to do next. He’s never talked someone through something like this before. It doesn’t help that this is Billy. _Billy_ , who never shows anybody his vulnerable side, who is loud and rash and certainly not the anxious type, who laughs the loudest pre-meet _and_ post-meet and is the last person Steve’d ever expected to see like this.

“Listen,” he continues, realizing he has no idea _what_ Billy should listen to. “You should—shit, uh, breathe?”

“I know how to fucking _breathe_ , dimwit,” Billy snaps, clenching his jaw right after and biting down on his lip so hard it goes white. Steve wants to put his thumb there, ease his lip away from the sharp teeth, and ignores the thought. There’s no way he’s going to touch Billy that way.

Still—he remembers how well a hand on his shoulders helped him calm down before his second ever meet, and his third. He remembers the way _Billy_ calmed down when they were fighting, the way he relaxed after Steve put his arm on his waist.

Tentatively, he puts his hand on Billy’s back, between his shoulder blades, and starts to gently stroke. It’s awkward initially because he’s not used to comforting people, but it gets easier and bit by bit, Billy’s harsh breathing slows down.

“Breathe,” Steve quietly repeats. He remembers Mrs. Julia teaching him a breathing exercise but it’s a moment before the rules come back to him. He doesn’t want to tell Billy the wrong shit and risk making things worse. “In, one, two… four… five,” and “yeah, that’s it,” when Billy responds. “Now hold your breath for a moment, hold it—breathe out ‘till I tell you to stop.”

Air escapes from Billy’s lips and Steve wonders whether this is his first panic attack. _Maybe_ , he thinks. Probably not. Billy responds well to Steve’s instructions but that may just be his sportsmanship—in Steve’s experience, dealing with hyperventilation isn’t too different from catching your breath after strenuous exercise.

“That’s good,” he mutters, slowly stroking Billy’s back as he continues with the breathing exercises. He feels the ridge of his spine and the strength of his muscle; the tension in his shoulders finally dissolves a little.

They sit there until well after Billy calms down. Steve doesn’t know why it happened, and he doesn’t expect to be told, although he’s undeniably curious. Billy’s skin is now hot and dry and Steve remembers things he’s tried to suppress.

“I’m good now,” Billy murmurs, squirming away from Steve’s touch at long last. “I’m fine. Just too drunk.”

He doesn’t meet Steve’s eyes, which is whatever. Steve thinks Billy could’ve thanked him, but it’s not like he expected him to.

“Sure.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Billy tells him. Steve didn’t think he was, but Billy isn’t easy to read. “And don’t fuckin’—don’t follow me. I know you want my dick.”

The change in his demeanor throws Steve off. It gets him angry because he _doesn’t_ , and he wants to shout, _I know you want mine_. He wants to get up and follow Billy, the venom of the words sour on his tongue—or maybe that is the aftertaste of alcohol.

He waits until Billy finishes changing.

~~~

“You need a ride home, asshat?” Harrington asks.

Billy tries to ignore him, shivering in the cold. Snow melts through his Converse and Camaro’s exterior is freezing his ass. He just wants to smoke a cig, sober up a little before he goes home.

Steve’s by his Beemer, door open and lights on.

“I asked you something, can I get a response!” Steve repeats.

“Fuck the fuck off,” Billy spits back.

The words come out harsher than he intended, and he feels dizzy. He leans forward and knows he shouldn’t have had that last cigarette as he takes deep breaths of freezing air. He lets the butt drop to the tarmac and grinds it out, remembers Steve’s dumb breathing exercise and how it helped more than he expected.

Not that it matters. Not Harrington, and not anybody else, can change a thing about Billy having to go back home. He regrets driving his date here, thinks he should have walked; anything would’ve been better than this.

Maybe he can sleep off the worst of the alcohol in his back seat—he’s done that before, though not yet in Hawkins. He figures Hopper might find him, though, and although he doesn’t think he’ll get jailed for anything, Hopper seems the kind of person to look straight through Billy. That’s worse than a night in the pen, Billy thinks, and not something he wants to happen.

Steve’s next to him.

“You’re not going home by yourself like this,” he informs Billy.

Another wave of nausea hits Billy as he shakes his head, trying to keep his voice steady. “Nah, man. I’ll manage.”

His dad’ll ask him about the boy taking him home. Ask if Steve’s a queer, ask if Billy is. If they fucked in the backseat. If that’s why he got drunk. Thinks he’ll get grabbed by his arm, dragged through the house and into his room—he remembers being shouted at, called _faggot_ and tonight he feels like he _is_ more than ever.

Billy bends over and retches, though nothing comes up. Steve’s hand is warm on his back, rubbing again as he asks, “You need to puke?”

He swallows and takes a few deep breaths, not answering because he isn’t sure. Slowly the feeling—anxiety, maybe—subsides. “Don’t think so. Maybe? No.”

“Tell me to stop the car if you do,” Steve tells him. Then he maneuvers Billy to the other side of the car, helping him into the passenger seat.

Looking to his side, he thinks Steve looks a lot softer now than in the threatening light of the parking lot. The Beemer remains where it was, now with its lights turned off again. He doesn’t like other people driving his car, his baby, but he knows that he couldn’t have made it home in one piece tonight.

Steve looks back at him and smiles, although he doesn’t look happy. For a moment, Billy thinks Steve’s going to put his hand on his thigh. Instead he puts the car into first gear and slowly drives off.

“I live just off the main road at—” he starts, but Steve shushes him.

“I know where you live, don’t worry.”

Billy is too drunk, too tired to say anything. The moment he realizes Steve’s an alright driver and not taking risks with the Camaro he loses some of his worries, shifting in his seat so he can look outside. Trees zip by in dizzying flashes, illuminated by the headlights. He wonders if Steve knows what it’s like to not want to go home—he’s heard stories about him puking in a vase and putting it back on the mantle without receiving a reprimand for it. If Billy did that—if Billy did that, he’s not sure he’d survive it.

He’s not sure if he really nodded off, but Steve shakes his shoulder after parking in the driveway.

“Billy,” he says. “Hey, Billy?”

“Yeah,” Billy says.

There’s another strange moment between them, staring at each other. He wants to lean in, he wants Steve’s arms to wrap around him and Steve’s voice to tell him _it’s okay_.

Steve’s voice does say something. It’s not what he wants to hear.

“You owe me for this, asshole,” he says, handing the keys back.

Billy watches him disappear into the darkness, taking the shortcut to the pool he’s taken plenty of times before. He doesn’t think Steve’d appreciate it if he walked with him, and he’s not sure why the idea’s on his mind at all.

~~~

Steve makes it home at three.

The fifteen minutes it took to get back to the Beemer was better than he’d expected. The walk ’s still left him with cold feet, and exhaustion has permeated to his bones. He wonders if he walked the way Billy walked to the pool, that night they ran into each other.

Opening the front door, a light upstairs turns on.

“Steve?” he hears his dad whisper as he locks the door behind him, toeing off his shoes.

“Yeah,” he whispers back and makes his way upstairs, where his dad’s looking at him, huddled in a bathrobe.

“You’re late,” he tells Steve. It’s not condescending—not even worried, only a statement.

He nods. “Had to take a friend home, don’t worry. I’m not drunk.”

His dad smiles and nods as well. “Alright, then. Sleep well, kid.”

“Yeah, you too,” Steve whispers back.

He gets into the shower in his en suite bathroom. His body tingles as it warms back up and he closes his eyes. Sighs, feels relaxation set in as he decides not to think about the implications of tonight because none of it matters anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

The last thing Billy remembers is being driven home by Steve.

He doesn’t remember arriving, sneaking into the house or undressing.

The lack of control he has over the memories is distressing. They are hazy at best and he can’t recall, no matter how hard he tries, whether he said anything he shouldn’t have. Whether he crossed one of his own boundaries, spilled the secret that he’s been guarding with his life.

Still, when he gets into the shower his mind finds its way back to Steve. There’s something about him that is undeniably irresistible to Billy in the most horrible of ways—and it reminds him of a boy back in California. He remembers sneaking onto the beach at night, the few tentative kisses they shared; he remembers thinking for the first time in his life he might end up _happy_.

It was the first time he could allow himself to act true to his feelings, however briefly. After a few weeks the boy had abruptly shoved him out of his life, decided that it wasn’t for him, and Billy has tried everything he can to do the same thing ever since.

He grabs Steve’s shampoo this morning and lets his consciousness fade, sinking into a flurry of memories.

He remembers smelling Steve last night, with his hand comforting on Billy’s back. He can’t recall what made him panic, only that he had and it was bad—worse than it’d been in ages. He’d wanted Steve to wrap his arms around him and hold him close, although the touch he offered Billy was good, better than nothing and almost enough. It felt better than acting like an ass to Steve, the attention he received from Harrington _nice_ for once.

He washes his hair and thinks of their thighs pressed together. Thinks about what could have happened if they’d been all alone last night and he wonders if Steve would kiss back if Billy leaned in. He’d like to—he could push Steve up against the shower wall or the lockers, shove his thigh between Steve’s legs and grind against him till they’re both be hard.

The water plasters his hair to his skin and he closes his eyes, stroking himself.

He doesn’t bother fighting the thoughts. It’s an uneven match anyway, he dreams about this nightly. He knows he’s a goner for Steve.

For the way Steve’s wide shoulders glisten as he pulls himself from the pool, the way he fills out his speedos. The way he’d tasted, his lips cool from the water; the way he’s able to settle the turmoil of emotions raging inside of Billy like it’s nothing at all—like he pulls them out and replaces them with those sweet knots in his stomach that leave him craving for more.

He remembers the way Steve gasped and moaned in his ear—going back over the memories, Billy thinks he can remember the moment Steve came, maybe. In the way his fingertips dug into Billy’s back, his pulse fluttering under his skin while Billy licked at his neck.

He braces himself against the cool tiles and strokes himself faster. More he doesn’t need, lost in the scent of the shampoo and taste of Steve as he spills up against the wall where it’s washed away seconds later. He leans his forehead against his arm, taking his time to catch his breath.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers.

He pushes himself back up. The shampoo bottle stands in the rack beside Billy’s own, his dad’s and Susan’s and Max’s, and finally he feels that old-familiar sadness rise inside of him, tainted with breathless shame.

~~

Practice resumes as per usual after the break.

Steve spent nearly a week at a swim camp in Milwaukee and it was nice enough, he thinks, being surrounded by other rich kids sent off by their parents for the week. He’d trained, tweaked his technique, and had fun.

Or maybe that’s just what he’s telling his folks. The best thing about the camp was that he got to leave Hawkins for a while.

Still, there’s something about walking back into the Hawkins communal pool that he thinks he’s _missed_. Finding faces that he’d subconsciously looked for in the crowd in Milwaukee, something unruly sparking in his stomach when he spots a familiar mess of blonde curls.

Steve’s eyes dart down, find the smooth curve of Billy’s ass, accidentally allowing heat to a chance to blossom in his stomach before he looks away. He takes a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back and focusing on getting his swim cap on. It doesn’t entirely solve his little problem but jumping into the pool will.

Steve isn’t stupid, he knows what it means. He just doesn’t want to.

-

“Can’t deal with a little pain, Harrington?” Billy shouts.

Steve groans, rolling his shoulders again. He’s pretty sure he pulled a muscle during practice, feeling it now he’s lifting his arms to shampoo his hair.

“What? It’s that I can see your dick, or I’d say you grew a fucking _pussy_.”

The other guys laugh, and Steve tells Billy, “Fuck off,” continuing to wash his hair.

He feels an arm brush against his chest and he nearly freezes. He’s aware that it’s Billy and wonders what will happen next, hopes it’s nothing _untoward._ Instead, Steve’s shower is turned off and he’s left with shampoo in his eyes.

“Aw,” Billy tuts. “Look at you, all helpless like a pretty princess in need.”

Steve has some ideas about why Billy might want to piss him off. It’s nothing substantiated yet, but there’d been something about his demeanor that night he drove him home—coupled with the way he was when, _when_ —things that make Steve think that fast cars and hot girls aren’t everything to Billy Hargrove.

None of this increases his empathy for the guy, though. He’d thought so, maybe, after witnessing Billy vulnerable and panicking—but not now.

“Like I said, Hargrove,” Steve calmly states, aware that he’s lowering his voice—although it’s hardly a conscious decision. “Fuck. Off.”

“Or what?” Billy retorts.

He wants to say, I’ll beat you up. Wants to tell Billy that he’ll tell the entire school his dirty little secret—and he knows right away that would be the wrong move.

“Just fucking leave,” he reiterates instead.

It’s quiet for a long moment, Billy hovering near. At last he says, “Whatever, bitch,” and Steve can all but hear him shrug. He listens to the wet slap of Billy’s feet on the floor until he’s gone. Turning the shower back on, his heart still races and he’s shaking—he hasn’t felt this bad since the first time he saw Nancy walk hand in hand with Jonathan.

~~~

“For real, man?” Tommy tells Billy. “Again?”

“I’ll be fine,” Billy mutters. Maybe he slurs a little—he doesn’t know nor care. “Jus’ alcohol.”

“I’d hope so, _shit,_ we have a meet on Saturday.”

Tommy is a bit difficult to understand. Billy’s home alone so he’s using the kitchen phone, the bottle of liquor within reach, and thinks he wants to punch himself. It’s the last meet he can attend before the District finale next month and he probably should try to do well.

“I’ll be _fine_ ,” he repeats. “I’ll be good, Tommy, man. Fine, ‘s no lie.”

“Go sleep,” Tommy tells him. “Sleep it off, don’t worry ‘bout tomorrow.”

Billy doesn’t know what tomorrow is and he doesn’t fucking care. He responds saccharine sweet, “Sure thing, mommy.”

The word drags up a memory of his actual mom and _something_ rises in his throat, though he isn’t sure what. She’d cheated on his dad, had been more into having fun than taking care of Billy the last years they’d lived together as a family. Now, he hasn’t seen her in nearly two years—nor has he wanted to—but he sometimes misses the old her. The woman he remembers from when he was little, when she’d still sing him happy birthday, bake him cookies or take him to the local pool.

He digs his nails into the skin of his leg, pulling himself from the memory. Tommy’s already hung up the phone, the dead line beeping monotonously.

“Fucking shit,” he grumbles to himself. He stumbles into the living room and rakes up the cans of beer. There’s a bunch of them—too many—and he stashes all of them into a black trash bag. He dumps the contents of the ashtray on top and he ties off the bag so he can keep it hidden without stinking up the Camaro.

He’s finished cleaning by the time Max gets home on her skateboard.

He cooks for them, and they eat in silence.

Max doesn’t chew him out for his lazy cooking and Billy counts it as a small victory.

-

The changing room is packed.

Billy navigates his way around a bunch of guys from a different school and finds an empty place to dump his shit. He hasn’t decided yet whether he likes the crowd or not—on one hand, it means that no one’s gonna be staring. On the other hand, the space is hot and he feels like he can’t breathe right, missing the frequent open-air meets back in Cali.

Having shaved at home, he quickly changes and then slips into the pool area for a moment. The flags over the pool for the backstroke people are brightly colored and slightly wilted, but the general atmosphere is upbeat and—much like the dressing room—just a little too loud for Billy. He wishes he had a Walkman like one of the rich kids; that he could slip out the back door and listen to his music for a moment to get in the zone.

If Steve were here, he might have tried and get his hands on _his_ Walkman. As it is, though, Steve hadn’t shown up for the bus and while he’s tried to spot him, Billy’s been unable to so far—it might well be that he’s managed to make it to Indianapolis somehow and he just hasn’t seen him.

By the time he moves back to the changing room for his pre-game ritual, the crowd has finally quieted down a little. He gets his cap on, hops into the showers, and then checks the pool’s temperature by splashing some onto his chest. The pool hall itself is getting hotter by the minute and sweat prickles his back.

Tommy slaps his shoulder, dragging him from his thought. “You ok, man?”

“Sure,” Billy shrugs.

“You seem out of it, you’re not like,” Tommy drops his voice, “ _hungover_ , are you?”

Billy knows Tommy means well, probably, but even if he were it’s none of his business. He doesn’t want to divulge all his private little secrets to a guy that sucks up to whoever is currently the most popular guy in school, no matter who it is. Still, he forces a smirk to his face and barks out a laugh that sounds too sharp to his own ears. “Nah, dude, don’t worry. I’m good, all good.” Tommy doesn’t look convinced, so Billy adds, “Didn’t know you cared so much.”

“You did call me _mom_ ,” Tommy tells him. “Guess I could always replace Steve as a babysitter to the little freaks if he skipped town or whatever.”

“Fat chance,” Billy snorts, ignoring the way his stomach jolts at the mention of the name. “You’d be too busy necking Carol.”

“Ooh, fuck,” Tommy sighs. It’s that dreamy look in his eyes he _always_ gets when it’s about Carol and sex. “You know, I’d invite her over and put the kids in that creepy basement at the Wheelers, get some alone time with my girl. It’d be _great_.”

He’d wanted to ask Tommy whether he’s seen Steve, but he sees no opportunity, no way he can sidle the question in without it seeming out of character, out of place. Instead he laughs and tells Tommy, “Sure thing, stud, make sure you guys use protection.”

“You know we do!” Tommy rolls his eyes. “We may be stupid but we’re not actual idiots, okay? What happened to you and [girl] anyway? You seemed into her over the break and then she’s gone.”

“Didn’t work out,” Billy shrugs. He hasn’t seen her since the party. “Too boring.”

“Her _ass_ though,” Tommy whistles.

“No match to my own.” Billy smirks.

Of course, that’s the moment Steve walks past in his tiny Hawkins High green Speedos. He doesn’t have his cap on yet, a towel slung over his shoulder, and he doesn’t appear to see Billy at all. He ignores the twang of whatever-it-is in his stomach and quickly looks back at Tommy because he can’t be staring at Steve, under no circumstances but especially not now. It’s a frustrating fact of life he’s had four years to suppress and he’s gotten pretty fucking good at it.

~~

Steve figured that being late to the meet and driving himself to Indianapolis would come with the perk of getting to leave whenever he’d like.

Instead, the motor rattles and groans before dying back down. This is the third time he’s tried and he’s getting increasingly annoyed. The school bus is still in the lot, but he’d have liked to go home now and crawl into bed, fall asleep once the high of winning the District medley relay wears off.

After another five minutes of trying, his face growing hot with frustration, he gives up and heads back inside. There’s got to be someone who can help him find a mechanic—hell, at this point he’ll pay to get his car towed back to Hawkins if he’s got to.

“Back already, Steve? That was a quick trip!” Mr. Davis jokes, trying to cheer Steve’s sour mood.

“Car won’t start,” he grumbles. He knows he’s frowning and he knows that’s not gonna look good to the team, but he’s over it.

“Did you let it warm up?” Billy butts in before pulling a face, like he hadn’t actually wanted to speak up. Steve understands that feeling—as well as the general frustration in their interaction, which only seems to intensify nowadays.

“Yeah.” It comes out sharp, disdainful, because Steve’s not a fucking idiot. “I’ve lived in Indiana all my life, remember? I know how cars respond to winters.”

Billy shrugs, holding up his hands. “We get plenty of complaints from folks who lived here all their lives and still forget. Mostly old fogeys I guess, but it doesn’t hurt to ask.”

“Ah, right, you work at the car shop!” Coach Davis says, elated. “Would you mind taking a look at his car?”

“Sure,” Billy nods, already pulling on his coat and smirking at Steve. “Let’s take a look at that wreck of yours, Harrington.” He smirks and winks at Steve.

For once, he thinks Billy might be right.

-

Forty-five minutes later, they’re on the highway and arguing about which music station to pick.

“You don’t even have any decent fucking tapes,” Billy complains, rifling through the few Steve keeps in a box under the seat. “The fuck’s this—John Denver? You think you’re a cowboy?”

Steve sighs. “You know, you could’ve gotten on the bus with everyone else.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t and now your car actually drives,” Billy informs him, still looking grumpy. “And in case you forgot, you didn’t pay me, so maybe be grateful and let me pick the music.”

Steve’s buckling under Billy’s words—and the way he’s unzipped his coat in the five minutes they’ve been on the road. His shirt underneath is, as always, unbuttoned and he flushes when Billy catches him staring at his chest.

He doesn’t comment on it, but the mood between them turns weird again—like the tension increases tenfold every time something like this happens. Steve doesn’t know when or what the culmination of this crap is going to be, but he knows something _will_ happen—and he’ll bet on it taking place between now and their arrival back in Hawkins.

Like Billy, Steve shuts up and clenches his fingers around the wheel, settling for a long and frustrating ride home.

-

“Oh no, no, no no _no_ ,” Steve shakes his head when Billy digs up a pack of cigarettes. “Not in the car.”

“Oh fuck off,” Billy rolls his eyes, “like you’ve never smoked in here.”

Steve knows he’s dead if he does and shakes his head again. His dad’s an asshole when it comes to alcohol and cigarettes. “Nope. You can wait ‘till we’re back in Hawkins.”

“Mm, nah,” Billy murmurs, putting his feet on the dashboard. “I don’t think I _can_ wait another hour.” Although he fiddles with a cigarette between his fingers, he seems pretty relaxed—not at all fidgety the way someone aching for a smoke would be. Besides, he’s certain he’s seen Billy go without a cigarette longer than an hour before.

Which means that he’s doing this to rile up Steve, and it’s working.

“Fine,” he finally gives in ten minutes later, feeling like a complete pushover and hating himself a little for it. Billy’s flicking his lighter, cleverly wearing down Steve’s nerves. “I’ll find a rest stop so you can have your smoke.”

Billy’s head lolls to the left as he grins at Steve. “Awesome, thanks. See, I wouldn’t usually smoke this much but, y’know, being in a car with you bein’ all mopey gets me so fuckin’ stressed.”

“Oh, you fucking asshole,” Steve mutters under his breath, looking for a sign. He needs some fresh air too, some space from Billy.

“What’s that?” I didn’t understand,” Billy turns to look at Steve, putting a hand behind his ear. “Too, eh, quiet.”

“Asshole,” Steve repeats himself, voice firm and eyes on the road. “That’s what I said. You’re a fucking _asshole_.”

Billy laughs. Steve sees mud come off his shoes, smearing onto the dashboard, and takes a mental note of cleaning that before his dad sees.

Still he feels an urge to make Billy feel more comfortable; he wants to tell him there should be an exit soon and bites down hard on his tongue instead. He’s not sure what it is that makes him so inclined but it’s fucking miserable, especially when he knows that anything he says will be used against him.

Instead he patiently waits until a road sign appears, pointing at it. Billy barely responds, looking out of the window instead. The sun is starting to set and dusk swallow the details of the trees, blending them to a single dark mass with jagged pointy tips. Billy’s tapping his fingers on his thigh and Steve forces his eyes back on the road, flicking on the signal.

The rest area is adjacent to a small self-service pump in the woods. The few times he’s been here to fill up his tank, Steve didn’t linger. The seclusion feels threatening, especially when no one else’s around—like now.

He doesn’t need gas so he stretches his arms and legs, pacing away from the car. He’s pulled a muscle in his shoulder and it’s become more painful from sitting stagnant for a while. He should tell his physio, he thinks, get it checked out—even if it’s nothing, he’d rather be safe than sorry.

“You still smoke, Harrington?” Billy calls out.

Steve turns and shrugs, even though Billy’s holding his pack out to him. His mouth waters, though, his fingers tingle in a way that can only be appeased by holding a filter. “Maybe.”

“I’m _offering_ , dumbass,” Billy snorts, shaking his head as he pushes the pack towards Steve again. “I know you used to. You look stressed.”

“They call this peer pressure, you know,” Steve tells him, reaching out. His fingers brush Billy’s before he grabs a cig although he doesn’t look up to meet Billy’s eyes. He’s well aware that Billy’s face is close, eyes on him like he’s searching for something. “Lighter?” he asks, voice cracking.

Billy flicks the zippo again. The flame’s bright in the twilight and warm in the freezing air. Steve sucks on the filter but the flame dies before his cigarette burns, so he shields the cigarette from the wind with his hands; Billy’s hand is warm against his own. Steve’s heart beats faster and he knows it’s not the nicotine.

He wants to look up at Billy, but he’s terrified of doing something he’ll regret later. The thought that he could lean in and press their lips together like that time in the pool, easy like that, and not be pushed off by Billy, sends shivers down his spine. He somehow knows Billy wouldn’t resist him.

“Billy,” he mumbles. Billy didn’t corner him; he could step away if he wanted to.

Steve doesn’t think he’s strong enough.

“Mmm?” Billy hums.

Needing something to do, Steve takes a drag from his cigarette. His hand is shaking—and when he finally looks up, Billy is so close that most of his face is a blur. Not his eyes though—his eyes are a vibrant blue and his gaze is locked on Steve. And God, God, he’s so fucking _pretty_.

“What—” he manages, his voice breaking.

“Nothin’,” Billy shakes his head, reaching out for Steve’s neck. His fingers are warm and callused. “Nothin’ at all.”

Then they’re kissing. Their shoes scuff together and he’s weirdly aware of that—the lapels of Billy’s jeans jacket are softer in his clenched hands than he expected. The fabric feels worn, warm and comfortable, and that’s not an association he has with Billy. Everything to Billy is tough, brash and rude, but the moment is tentative, and the kiss is tender.

Billy brushes his nose against Steve’s, cold already, and Steve can hear him quietly gasp. Then the click of their teeth and the kiss deepens, Steve stumbling a little as his knees go weak and he ends up backing Billy up against his car—because he needs this, he’s _wanted_ this, dreamed of this for months now.

He bites down on Billy’s lip before licking back into his mouth, tongues pressing together, and in the quiet winter air he hears the sound of their breaths mix, feels the heat on his skin as Billy continues to drag him closer, closer.

Their legs slot together, and Billy circles his arms around Steve, hands creeping under his coat. Cold air hits his back and he shivers, moaning as he grinds up against Billy once.

“Shit,” he mutters, breaking the kiss to stroke a hand down Billy’s cheek. He looks tired, tired but content, and Steve can’t stand to see him this vulnerable, so he leans in to press kisses down his jaw, then further down across his jugular. Billy’s hair tickles now it’s dry and he pushes it aside, so he can get to more hot skin, licking up the acrid remnants of the cologne that fills his nose.

“Steve—” Billy shudders, shivers, and then he throws his head back. Steve feels feverish.

“Yeah, yes, _yeah_ ,” Steve groans, rolling his hips forward again.

“Steve, Steve,” Billy babbles; he sounds delirious, lost in his own world, so Steve kisses his way back up to Billy’s face, to that fantastic mouth. He thought they’d end up fighting today, here, not kissing—not whatever the fuck this is.

“Billy,” he repeats, closing his mouth over Billy’s again.

He doesn’t understand it, but it’s easier to ignore now—to follow along with what his body demands of him. He’s not sure why he responds to this asshole the way it does, and he’ll hate himself for this when he’s back home and alone—but Steve feels on top of the world right now. Better than he has in ages, not thinking about heartbreak or loneliness, better than maybe ever—because Billy’s kisses are fantastic and his hand squeezes Steve’s ass _just_ right and with a couple more minutes he’ll come in his jeans and it’s gonna be worth it.

He wants to say something, whisper sweet shit in Billy’s ear like he used to with Nancy, but then the parking lot is lit up by another car’s headlights.

Steve tumbles backwards, ass first to the frozen ground, and realizes belatedly Billy’s pushed him off. He looks scared, staring at the car that’s pulled up to the gas dispenser, and then gets into the car. Like he doesn’t want to be seen, like this is forbidden, and Steve forgot for a little while that it wasn’t.

The drive back home is quiet; when he drops Billy off home, he doesn’t say a word. Instead he slings his bag over his shoulder and walks inside, not looking back or acknowledging Steve in any other way.

Steve ignores the shard of hurt that finds its way into his chest.


	6. Chapter 6

Billy avoids Steve.

Regardless, the cold glances that Steve directs at him those few times he manages to acknowledge Billy’s existence cut deep into his soul.

They still have to swim the relay medley at the Regionals together. He’s not sure how they’ll manage, because currently this kind of teamwork is miles beyond them.

He knows he shouldn’t have, and that makes everything worse. Billy blames himself for the situation, because he _is_ the one blame. He shouldn’t have forced Steve to pull over, he shouldn’t have offered him the cigarette. He certainly shouldn’t have leaned close for the kiss.

It’s straight boy panic, he thinks. It’s like Levi back in California, two nights of making out and he was gone, back to his normal straight life and leaving Billy heartbroken. If it’s happened before, and it’s happening now, surely it will happen again in the future.

The only upside to Steve acting this way is that Billy can be damn sure he’s not going to tell anyone else. He won’t want to be called gay, a fag, he won’t want anything nasty happen to him and Billy’s damn sure that they both know the implications of something like this coming out. Everyone knows, even if he doesn’t know if it’s ever happened in Hawkins before.

There is a magnetic pull to Steve still. He’ll catch himself drifting off in thought and when he realizes what’s happening he sees nothing but Steve.

One thing is certain, at least—Steve doesn’t want anything to do with him anymore, and that’s a god-damn blessing. It means Billy can work towards getting over him, towards putting this shit out of his mind and pretend he never fell for the asshole, pretend—

And that’s what his life boils down to. Billy keeps on pretending, and tries to avoid Steve, and he’s failing miserably because they run in the same fucking circles and even if they hadn’t, he doesn’t think he could keep himself in check anyway.

-

They come in third in the relay—him, Tommy, Sean and Steve.

Steve gets interviewed on the bus ride back to the school, of course. The girl beside him is the school news reporter, a girl called June who touches him a little too often, and bile rises in Billy’s throat. He turns away, pretends it’s only the lovey-dovey eyes she’s making at Steve, although he’s aware that’s not what has him upset.

She’s blonde, with her hair tucked behind her ears and she has pushed her hair back with round sunglasses. She’s kind of cute, maybe. Her skin looks smooth.

He reaches for the alcohol in his bag, an eight he snuck along and begging to be downed. When Tommy sees the bottle, he extends his hand and wags his brows; Billy watches as he takes a deep drink of the liquor before handing it back.

“Time for a party, right?” Tommy smirk, pushing his shoulder against Billy’s. “We did well! Third, mofo, best we’ve done in Regionals in decades!”

“That’s awesome,” Billy smiles, hoping that it comes off as real. He’s not sure he manages—it certainly doesn’t feel like it.

And he doesn’t look at June put her hand on Steve’s thigh, and he doesn’t look at Steve laughing with her, leaning in just a little bit, like they’re not dating quite yet but are going to be in a matter of weeks, if not days.

-

Most of his whiskey is gone when they get off the bus. It’s a pretty good buzz he’s got going, one that leaves him a little unsteady on his feet and feeling rowdy. He knows he shouldn’t have, not on a mostly empty stomach after exercise, but he doesn’t care.

They have a debrief in the changing room and Billy only half-listens, even when coach Davis congratulates them all individually. He’s thinking about whether he wants to go home at all—if he’d driven his car to the pool, he might have found a motel outside of Hawkins, just to get away from this pig-sty. As it is, he lingers behind, talking to Tommy and then Sean until they leave for home, and by that time Margaret comes in.

“Billy, I’m going to have to lock up the pool soon,” she says, like she doesn’t know full well Billy’s been sneaking in at night. “Are you okay?”

He knows that if he shrugs, shows her the slightest bit of sadness, she’ll come at him with an outstretched arm and words of comfort. It’s the kind of lady she is, good at keeping the pool tidy and teaching little kids to swim and the teens to feel better.

Billy doesn’t want to feel better. He wants to be alone, and he certainly doesn’t want to be comforted by a lady that’s nothing like his mom.

He shrugs on his coat and grabs his bag, walking outside and bracing himself for the cold.

In the parking lot, he sees June and Steve stand beside her car, a butt-ugly Starlet in a grimy yellow color. She leans in to whisper something in Steve’s ear, or maybe kiss his cheek—Billy can’t see from this angle, nor does he want to.

He lights a cigarette and watches from the shadows the overhang casts over him, waiting until June drives off. His stomach is a mess of anxiety and nausea, anger that he can feel in his teeth as he grinds them down, trying to keep breathing.

The moment the yellow disappears from sight, he steps out of the building’s shadow. “Hey, Harrington!” he shouts out, “you havin’ fun?”

“Fuck off, Hargrove!” Steve shouts back, lifting his hand as he walks to his car. “Don’t be a dick!”

“What, me?” Billy smirks, walking towards him. The alcohol is still in his system and he’s ready to punch someone. Punch _Steve_ , preferably. “Why were you talkin’ to her anyway? You like her?”

Steve turns to look at him, eyes narrowing. “Would it matter to you if I did?”

“Nope.” Billy shakes his head, coming up to stand beside Steve. “I don’t give a crap what you are to her, I was just tryin’ to, oh I don’t know, show some interest? Be nice. Then _you_ turned asshole.”

Steve’s lips go thin and he looks angrier by the second. Billy revels in it—he wants to keep pushing Steve’s buttons, wants to punch Steve, wants to touch Steve again no matter what it takes.

He leans closer. “You fuck her yet? Find out if she’s got a tight virgin pussy, unlike Nancy or the other cows here—” and now that he’s talking it’s easy to keep going, for the words to drip from his lips like honey because he’s heard them a thousand times before over dinner, while being punched in his guts.

“Fuck you, Billy,” Steve tells him, punctuating his words with a finger pressed to Billy’s chest. “You’re a miserable piece of shit _faggot_.”

Finally, Billy loses himself.

~~~

He doesn’t expect to suddenly topple backwards. Immediately, sharp discomfort shoots up his spine and he screams, although he’s not sure if it’s pain or shock. 

Billy looms over him. It’s like he slipped on a mask—usually he’s smirking, bossing around people. Now he’s something different entirely, something terrifying, his brows furrowed and eyes dark.

He’s breathing heavily and then his fist connects with Steve’s cheek.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he splutters before Billy descends onto him with his full weight, trying to get another punch in. Steve avoids it, but barely. He tries to push Billy off but it’s impossible and fear courses through his body as he shouts, “Get off me! Get off--!”

“Asshole!” Billy spits, wrestling to keep him on the ground. The muddy asphalt is freezing cold and hard against his back and Steve can feel it rub into his hair. It’s terrifying, clear that Billy is the better fighter.

That doesn’t mean Steve doesn’t try. He shields his face and then starts to punch the air, hoping to get a punch in. Somehow, he manages, with blood immediately dripping from Billy’s nose and down to his shirt. It soaks the fabric even as Billy laughs snidely again, head thrown back like a goddamn madman.

 _He’s lost it_ , Steve thinks, wondering how on earth he’s going to get out of the situation. He can feel nausea rise in his stomach, his throat constricting until it’s painful as the fear seeps into his guts, his bones. He’s alone and he’s helpless.

“Get off me!” Steve repeats again, frantically shoving up at Billy, scrambling his feet against the ground in an attempt to throw him off, _anything_. “What are you doing! Shit—”

There’s no breaking the rage that has descended on Billy. His fists connect to the frozen beside Steve’s head, and then again, and then _again_.

Billy’s face has twisted into a terrible grimace that sends more nausea through Steve’s body, and he tries not to retch. Tears are streaming down Billy’s cheeks, the lights from the BMW reflecting the wetness, reflecting pink flecks of spit and blood that fly through the air as Billy screams again.

Steve struggles to get him off, ever more frantic. It’s not until the realization that Billy is going to kill him, right here, in the pool’s muddy parking lot, that a massive surge of adrenalin courses through him. Within a second, he’s pushing off the ground, rolling them over and on top of Billy so he can land a punch to his face, hitting his eye socket hard enough that something _cracks_.

Billy looks like a mess, panting as Steve struggles to push his arms down with his knees.

“What the fuck, Billy!” he repeats, still frantic. “What the fuck!”

Billy is still squirming under him, screaming vowels, and Steve reaches down because he remembers that his touch has helped Billy calm down before. It’s just that this time there’s no will to help _Billy_ behind it—Steve can only think about his own survival. He knows he’s not out of the woods yet, blood rushing in his ears and his heart thumping in his chest.

“Don’t touch me!” Billy screams instead, trying to push him off.

“Jesus Christ!” Steve snaps back at him. “First you kiss me,” and he feels Billy’s muscles stiffen beneath him, “then you turn _asshole_ when you realize I want nothing to do with you, and now you’re trying to kill me, and you think I’ll let you go? You can go screw yourself!”

“Get _off_ me,” Billy repeats. This time, he sounds more scared, and Steve would—knows what that’s like, after all—but he’s got to be sure he’s safe first. He feels his own control slip, adrenalin still coursing heavy through his body and clouding his thoughts. He doesn’t want to hit Billy. He wants to hit Billy.

He takes a deep breath.

“Promise you won’t hit me again,” he demands. “I won’t let you go before that.”

“Fuck you!” Billy bucks up again, and it’s like riding a mechanic bull, trying to hold him down.

“ _Promise me_ ,” Steve shouts back.

“Fine! I won’t fucking hit you,” Billy gives in. “I _won’t_. Fuck!”

“Promise!”

“Yeah, I fucking promise!”

The moment Steve lifts his legs from Billy’s arms, Billy goes slack.

While Steve gets up, feeling the ache in his body from the fall he took, Billy stays on the ground. Steve’s muscles burn from his thighs up to his neck, he can feel the skin bruise where Billy punched him and his own hand hurts enough that he can’t straighten his fingers.

Leaning back against his car, he eyes Billy warily as he turns to the side and spits out a bloody mouthful, then rubbing at his eyes with his sleeves. It’s useless, the mud on his coat leaves streaks of dirt on his skin, and Steve can see Billy’s crying anyway. He doesn’t think he’s stopped crying at any point.

“If you touch me again, Hargrove,” he tells Billy, “I’ll have my dad call Hop and get you locked up. Understood?”

Billy’s shoulders tense up and Steve realizes only then how tired he looks—with his red rimmed eyes with deep circles under them like he hasn’t slept in days, only made worse by his pale skin. There’s no California tan left, nor the healthy flush Steve thinks he sees Billy with most days.

Billy doesn’t reply and this time, Steve doesn’t demand him to. He thinks the message got through loud and clear.

He gets in his car, probably getting mud all over his upholstery, but at this point he doesn’t care. Then he drives off, leaving Billy sitting slumped over in the parking lot, still trying to wipe away his tears.

-

“Hey honey, dinner’s ready!” his mom calls from the kitchen.

“Thanks!” Steve responds. He’s trying to sneak up the stairs without her seeing him so he can gauge the damage Billy’s done. He can see the mud on his clothes and skin, and the nasty shade of blue his hand is starting to turn under the grime. It’s still throbbing with pain, now swelling so it feels stiff and uncomfortable.

She comes out of the kitchen surrounded by the warm smell of spaghetti-and-meatballs, homeliness that makes Steve’s stomach rumble with anticipation even after everything that happened.

“Oh my God, Steve!” she exclaims. “What happened?” Rushing to him, she puts her hand on his chin, turning his face in different directions. “Who did this to you?”

Steve sighs, fighting the urge to rub his eyes because he doesn’t want gunk in them. Instead, he follows her to the bathroom where she cleans his wounds with rubbing alcohol while he gives her a quick run-down of events but changing the cause of Billy’s jealousy to being about his swimming.

“I’ll call Mr. Davis,” she informs him once she’s assessed the damage. Most of it isn’t as bad as either of them thought, although he suspects he’ll need to go to the ER tomorrow.

“Please don’t,” he tells her, shaking his head. “It’s okay. He got mad, it happens.”

Again, he’s not sure why he’s defending Billy. Maybe, he thinks, because he’s been an asshole. He knows there was no good reason to avoid him, knows that must have hurt Billy—but he didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t want to start pretending he was friends with Billy now or lead him on when nothing will ever happen between them.

He knows he can’t stop his mom, though. He just hopes the consequences won’t be too big, or bad.

~~

Billy tries to sneak in through the window but he’s too sore from the fight, too stiff from sitting out in the cold for what feels like hours.

Maybe it has been, he doesn’t know. The lights are still on, even in Max’s room, so it has to be before nine-thirty still, and Billy finds himself regretting not staying in the lot a little longer, till maybe he’d be coming home to a dark and quiet house. A peaceful house.

But he’s home now, and he wants his music and his alcohol, so with his head held down in the hopes that no one’ll notice his injuries or the dirt he enters the house. His cheekbone feels swollen, his nose and lips bruised, and his head is throbbing—he could kill for some Tylenol right now.

“The heck did you do?” his dad demands the moment he sees Billy. He’s already getting up, tall and looming and furious, and Billy feels himself cower under the anger and disapproval.

He shrugs.

“Answer me.”

“Nothing,” Billy mumbles, looking over at the living room to see if Susan’s there. She’s not, though he doesn’t think she’d have been much help if she was. “Sir.”

“Looks like you lost,” his dad observes. He’s not wrong, Billy thinks, but he’s not going to talk about that.

He wants to shake his head, but he’s frozen to the spot.

“Did you get beat up by some faggot?” his dad demands, breath now in Billy’s face. He can smell boiled vegetables and coffee, the cigars he sometimes smokes, and he wants to throw up, bile rising in his throat.

“No,” he stammers, trembling. “He was pissing me off. I didn’t like it.”

It’s a lie, and lies are dangerous—Billy knows it. He just can’t say _I was jealous_. Not when it’s followed by _the boy I like was talking to the girl he likes._

His dad runs his fingers along his moustache, his lips pressed together in a thin line. He’s furious, ready to lash out at Billy—but he’s controlling himself, for now at least. It looks like he’s thinking and Billy wants to take a shower, _needs_ to take a shower, has to wash himself clean of the mud and the tears and the memory of Steve.

“Can I—” he starts, tentatively, cut off by his dad right away.

“No, you can’t,” he says. “Go to your room.”

Billy nods, walking off when his dad grabs his arm.

“Answer me, Billy.”

“Yes,” he says. “I will go to my room, Sir.”

Once alone, he undresses and tries to scrub away the mud with a shirt. It’s not working, of course, and Billy feels disgusting and cold, ill enough to throw up until he sits down on the bed and cradles his head in his hands.

More tears come then and this time he does nothing to try and stop the flow. He can feel them drip hot down his cheeks, falling to the cold skin of his legs, trailing down to the floor.

Steve calling him a faggot was what pushed him past the brink. He’s sure Steve didn’t mean it the way his dad does—except maybe he does, maybe Steve means it _more_ because he knows that Billy _is_.

There was a moment, moving to Hawkins, where he’d entertained the idea that maybe _here_ he could find a girl he liked enough to settle down with, marry, have a bunch of kids. He knows the world doesn’t work like that, his _heart_ doesn’t, and he feels broken and awful—not just because he’s not supposed to feel this way, because he’s supposed to look at his poster of a porn star and think _yeah_ instead of _no._ It’s also the look in his father’s eyes, the look in Steve’s eyes, knowing that if he can’t find love with a girl, he can’t find love with anybody—because Billy may fall for someone but they—he won’t love him back.

Finally he gets too cold, shaking all over, so he crawls under the sheets. There, he allows himself to unravel for the first time in months, smothering his tears with his pillow until he falls asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, this is it... I know it was a bit of an emotional rollercoaster and if I'd had more time there are some things I'd have liked to polish up--but the reality is that I am a University student with a hefty workload, and this is still the longest fic I've finished and subsequently posted in a long, long time.
> 
> In any case, I hope you enjoyed the ride and I hope you'll enjoy the final chapter :)

His mom drops him off in the pouring rain, so Steve jogs inside with his bag slung over one shoulder.

He sits through his classes, barely paying attention, fiddling with a pen in his left hand. The cast is clunky around his right hand, annoying and awkward. So far, the biggest problem is taking a shower—not counting his inability to swim.

His mom had told him, “Maybe you should stay home from school for a few days, sit back and relax.”

He’d appreciated the sentiment, but it felt too much like cheating when he’s able to walk around. There’s something to being in school that makes him feel normal, grounding him. Nancy’s offered to help him out with homework and he’s declined that too—not willing to spend time around her, even though he’s pretty sure he’s not in love with her anymore. Looking at her doesn’t hurt.

Looking at Billy, however, does.

His cheek is swollen, bruised purple all the way up his eye socket. His nose looks red and puffy, painful but not broken—which would have been a shame, Steve thinks. Still, the knowledge that he was the one to do that, to deliver enough blows to mess up Billy’s face and then leave him alone, out in the cold and crying, makes his guts twist up with the guilt.

He’s heard people whisper, although he’s not sure how much anyone _really_ knows. Not about the kissing, of course, or the jealousy—although some people must think it’s about the swimming, or girls—but he hasn’t talked to anybody about it.

He is certain too that Billy hasn’t, judging the way Tommy and Carol treat him. Not too careful, not too wary. They must know about the fight—everybody does—and they stand with Billy, glancing over at Steve and casting worried looks between them.

It’s like the tension has perpetrated the school, following Steve wherever he goes.

-

After school, he’s called into Coach Davis’s office.

It’s small and reeks of cigarettes, a bunch of books in a bookcase that look ages old and unread—just there for the form. He doesn’t think Coach is much for reading, much like him.

Billy’s already there; he has slumped in his chair and chewing on his finger. His lips are red and Steve watches his tongue flick out, run across the skin momentarily, stirring something hot in his stomach before he looks away again.

The plastic is uncomfortable under his ass and Steve shifts, trying to make himself more comfortable as Coach Davis closes the door and sits down at his desk.

“So, boys,” he says, folding his hands in front of his mouth. “I heard you got into an—altercation. While the pool’s parking lot does not qualify as school property outside of opening hours, I do think it’s important we discuss this.”

If he expected a response, he doesn’t get it. Billy continues to chew on his nail; Steve looks at Coach Davis feeling like the surface of his mouth’s covered with sandpaper. “Well?” Davis repeats.

Billy takes a deep breath; Steve bites down on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah,” he says. “Just—a little fight, nothing bad. You know how guys are, ha.”

The laugh comes out forced and awkward, and Steve knows Davis doesn’t buy it for a second. It doesn’t seem to matter anyway.

“Alright, listen,” Davis says. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You two are going to apologize to each other for whatever—feud this is between the two of you,” he waves his hand back and forth between them, looking a little put out. “I don’t care what it is, you can go over the details after school or not, that’s up to you. Still, I want none of this business again.”

Steve nods and Billy grunts out a quiet, “Yes, sir.”

Coach looks at them insistently. “Go ahead.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve blurts out. He finds he means it—the image of Billy in the parking lot, alone and crying, has been haunting him. He’s not familiar with the anger that overcame him, and Billy’s face looks terrible. Steve’s never had the upper hand in a fight before, and even though he suspects Billy _let_ him, there’s something horrendous about looking at Billy and knowing he was the one to do that.

“Yeah I’m—sorry too,” Billy shrugs, grimacing, although that might be the pain. There’s a cut in his lip that shines with fresh blood and Steve swallows again.

He doesn’t know if Billy is being truthful. If he were to hate Steve—Steve’d understand that. He would. He’s been an asshole to Billy as much as Billy was one to him, and now he’s crossed a boundary with consequences he can’t take back.

Coach buys it, or if he doesn’t he’s at least satisfied with their apologies so far.

“One last thing before I’m letting you go,” he says. “If this does happen again, you’re off the team. Both of you—I don’t even care if you fight each other or someone else, I don’t want my team promoting violence.”

Something sharp twists inside Steve’s guts, a feeling he can’t place but which leaves him nauseous. He knows he can’t control Billy, has seen Billy’s violent streak more than once—he doesn’t want to be at Billy’s mercy like this.

But then he looks at Billy who is nodding in a way that _does_ seem genuine, and Steve knows swimming means as much—if not more—to Billy as it does to him.

He nods too and leaves the room the moment Coach Davis dismisses them.

~~~

Practise helps him soothe the crawling feeling under his skin, feverish and horrible. It pulls the tension from his muscles, streamlining him into something more, something better, until Billy is one with the water.

Afterwards he briefly talks to Tommy, who thinks Billy’s black eye looks rad. Billy doesn’t think so, but it doesn’t hurt—at least, not until he’s in bed and forgets it’s there, turning to lie on the wrong side.

It’s past six by then. He walks down to the school’s parking lot where he’s left the Camaro, stalling his return home, and there he finds Steve still loitering. He doesn’t notice Billy from where he’s perched on a low brick wall, huddled in his coat against the slow drizzle that’s been coming down most of the day.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows that it’s an insane idea, that that broken arm is because of Billy—or his eye-socket, at least—and rationally he knows that Steve has plenty of reasons to hate Billy. But Steve looks sad, and Billy’s chest tightens in the same way it’s been doing for the past six or so months, so he closes the door to the Camaro again and walks up to him.

Maybe, he thinks, there’s a side to himself that needs to explain beyond the apologies exchanged in Coach Davis’s office. Maybe it’s time.

“Hey,” he mutters.

Steve doesn’t look up, but his hitched breath lets Billy know he’s heard.

“Need a ride?”

Steve doesn’t respond, still, studying his cast like he’s going over the fight again. Billy knows the feeling, he’s done that plenty of times in the past few days.

“C’mon,” he soldiers on. “If no one’s gonna pick you up, I’m not gonna leave you out here in the rain. Not when it’s really my fault.”

This time, Steve snorts out a laugh. “Right, because you’re so self-sacrificing all of a sudden.”

Billy rolls his eyes and then puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “I wasn’t--I’m actually sorry about what happened.” He winces at the memory of Coach’s office, awkward and forced and under the scrutiny of someone that reminded him too much of his dad, in that moment. “I won’t touch you.”

His mind supplies it by, _although you didn’t hate that always_. He knows there’s a difference between tender touches and a fist to the face, but the flutter in his stomach seems to disagree.

“If you let me out the second I tell you to,” Steve starts. “Then it’s okay, I guess.” He doesn’t actually seem that afraid of Billy, which is—it’s fair enough, really.

“Sure,” Billy shrugs.

He leans down, moving to grab Steve’s bag, but Steve snatches it away with his left arm. “I don’t need help,” he informs Billy, finally looking him straight in the eyes.

“Yeah, okay,” Billy agrees easily, uncharacteristically so, and lets Steve into the Camaro.

-

The silence is uncomfortable, but he doesn’t particularly want to turn on the radio. Steve has a leg propped up on the dashboard, reminding Billy of the way he sat when he tagged along with Steve on the way back from Indianapolis.

“So,” Billy says.

“Yeah,” Steve says back.

They’re quiet again. Nerves fill Billy’s guts until it feels like he’s overflowing, and he bites down on his lip in an effort to not let everything spill.

“You said you really were sorry,” Steve reminds him. “Didn’t sound that way.”

Billy shrugs, taking a deep breath. He’s grateful for the way in Steve is giving him, at least to an extent. “I don’t like—being forced into things, I guess,” he says. “My dad’s an asshole.”

“Okay,” Steve replies. “I’m sorry about that. Is that why you’re so angry?”

“No need to psychoanalyse me,” Billy snaps back, before biting his tongue again. Shit. He’s not used to doing the talking, or any of this—but more and more he’s starting to think he doesn’t want to stay in this hostile limbo with Steve.

It doesn’t matter if they’re friends afterwards; if there’s more or nothing. Billy just needs things to not be the way they currently are.

“I’m,” he starts again, stops. “I guess that’s a part of it. My pop—he thinks I’m a faggot. This shit between us—it’s fucked up. Fucked _me_ up.”

The slur forces itself out and he can see Steve freeze from the corner of his vision. He’d love to close his eyes or run, but there’s nowhere to go. It’s only then that he realizes this is the first time either of them have acknowledged any of what’s happened—and they _need_ to, he knows, he’s even fucking dreamed about this shit, felt the phantom relief before waking up back in his nightmare.

Steve’s quiet for another long moment, looking contemplative before sighing. “So, are you?”

“What?”

Billy knows damn well what. He just needs—to be sure, before he puts his heart on his sleeve. He can’t afford to lose, here, not when it’s the last dregs of his sanity; his self-worth.

“Into guys, I mean?”

The roof of the Harrington residence is visible over the treeline, and Billy remains quiet as he pulls into the driveway. None of the lights are on; Steve’s parents must be away, or maybe they’re in a room at the back of the house. He doesn’t know; he doesn’t know Steve well enough for any of this.

“Billy?” Steve asks.

He could beckon Steve out of his car, and he could drive off and leave Hawkins and never return. Instead he gives him, feeling his heart jump in his chest before pounding so fast he thinks it’ll explode.

“Do you really need me to answer that?”

His fingers are trembling on the wheel and he’s nauseous, too scared to look at Steve now. His body is torn between shivering and overheating, between a flush and a pale face, and still he’s waiting for Steve’s response.

“Well,” Steve says quietly, “it’d be nice to hear you say it, I guess?”

Billy swallows. He tries to find his footing because this isn’t a situation he’s been in before, unfamiliar and more terrifying than anything else he’s ever done.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I am. Some people are gay, Steve.”

Steve nods but doesn’t say anything and Billy nearly buzzes out of his skin, the tendrils of anxiety snaking up his chest and making it more difficult to breathe.

“Was that enough for you?” he asks. “Or did you wanna hear I’m into you?”

Steve looks down at his hands in his lap. He could get out, if he wanted—there’s no reason for him to stay here. Instead, Billy watches Steve’s cheeks turn faintly pink. “I guess,” he says. “Maybe. I don’t actually know.” It figures, Billy thinks, it makes all the sense in the world that Steve hasn’t had to think about shit like his sexuality before. “I’ve never… before. Just.”

“Yeah,” Billy responds, and some of the old venom crops up. “I can tell, I guess. You’re not angry or sad enough. Or weren’t.” Because he’s seen Steve angry now, and he’s seeing him sad right fucking now.

Steve looks at him and nods. Then he leans over to grab his bag from the back seat.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he tells Billy.

“Yeah, see ya,” Billy responds.

He watches Steve disappear into the large, quiet house and then grabs a cigarette. His hands are still shaking but he’s slowly coming down from the nausea, from the awful chokehold that his feelings held him in—and Steve didn’t punch him, or laugh, or call him disgusting.

It’s closer to a win than Billy’s ever been.

-

Two weeks later, on a Friday, they celebrate the official end of the winter swimming season. They’ve done better than expected and worse than hoped, and Steve is glad it is all over.

Of course, Tommy hosts a party—because that’s what he does. He stands on a table with a paper crown on his head, and a crumpled-up paper medal around his neck—the kind that all of the swim club received upon entering the house. It’s already sweltering hot inside and Steve has a beer in his hand, although he isn’t going to get drunk tonight. There’s no need.

He spends some time talking to Jonathan and Nancy; he talks to Sean and Tommy and Carol and everything, finally, feels like it’s settling back into some sort of routine. A new status quo, now that the swimming season is over and Steve has space to breathe.

Now it’s a waiting game. The puzzle is starting to fit back together—there’s just one thing left to do.

When Billy arrives, the entire party knows. Girls flock to the front door and Steve smiles into his beer, unable to help himself, even though he is jittery with nerves. Instead he steps aside and waits, because he’s got time—they’re young, it’s early still, and there is no meet he has to get to tomorrow; no practise until his hand has healed and he’s had the green light from the family physiotherapist to go ahead and start back up.

So Steve hangs back and watches Billy make his way through the crowd. Their eyes meet briefly before Billy moves to talk to someone else—he’s popular as ever, and Steve knows for a fact that some of the girls keep pictures of a shirtless and dripping wet Billy in their lockers. Maybe some do under their pillows, too, he wouldn’t be surprised.

And so the night moves on; he dances a little, talks to more people, until finally he makes his way outside for some fresh air. It is no coincidence, he thinks, that Billy follows him into the small garden, filled with overgrown plants and weeds, filled with new buds and small bright-green petals.

“Hey,” Billy says, coming to stand next to him. “You alright?”

Steve nods. “I’m good. Taking it easy, though I don’t need pain meds anymore.”

Billy’s eyes flicker down to Steve’s cast and he has the urge to hide it—he knows Billy isn’t proud of what he’s done, but there’s no changing the past. Instead Steve checks whether anyone’s paying attention to them—which they’re not—and drags Billy around a corner, out of view of everyone.

“What’s this, Harrington?” Billy asks, letting Steve push him up against the wall.

“You know what this is,” Steve murmurs. They’ve talked about this, a few times, with Billy driving Steve home after school whenever his parents can’t—or don’t—make it. He’s been too nervous up until now, not sure enough, but last night he figured that he might as well give it a chance.

He wants to get to know Billy.

He wants to kiss him.

Billy’s breath ghosts over his mouth, his hand relaxed on Steve’s hip like that’s where it belongs. They’re nowhere near a relationship and that’s what makes it easy for Steve to press closer, pushing his lips to Billy’s.

Billy makes a little noise, his fingers tightening against Steve’s jeans, and then he kisses back.

“Risky,” Billy murmurs between kisses. “Didn’t know you were into voyeurism.”

Steve stifles his laugh against Billy’s neck, hot and sweaty and reeking of too much cologne. He can taste it, too, when he presses his tongue to it. “No, trust me. No one’s gonna find us here.”

He doesn’t tell about all the times he’s had girls pressed up against the wall here, but he thinks Billy might know anyway. 

And Billy is nothing like those girls, just like he’s nothing like Nancy—all hard angles and harsh words, and Steve knows that Billy likes loud music and leather, he can smell the beer on his breath and still nothing deters him from Billy. Even knowing that they will end up fighting more because Billy is a little broken on the inside, and so is Steve, can’t scare him.

(There are things that do, of course. He is well aware that they can’t go public with this—not here, not now—but that is something Steve can easily set aside, not think about, when it’s not anybody’s business anyway.)

He feels Billy hook his finger into a belt loop, tugging at it to get his attention. “You okay?”

Steve nods. “Sorry, just got—distracted.”

“You’ve got all distractions you need right here, baby,” Billy whispers in his ear, his voice low and sweet as honey and it sends a thrill of arousal through Steve’s belly—although the nickname does more. He doesn’t point it out to Billy because he must have slipped up, but that’s a first right there.

“Got distracted by you,” he confesses. “The future.”

“Don’t think about the future now,” Billy mutters against his lips, ready to move in to another kiss. “Leave the future for tomorrow.”

Steve laughs, because he’s starting to think that Billy is right—something deep inside him is starting to fill up, knit itself back together, under Billy’s surprisingly careful hands and his surprisingly tender kisses.


End file.
